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‘Come in.’

As the door opened, Professor Ben Tiferet smiled in
pleasure.  He was not too old by a long way to appreciate the beauty of the
female form and the female form who walked into his office at that moment had
the typical beauty of the true sabra.  However, he knew far better than to
reveal his thoughts and, as always, he kept them to himself.  Yaffa was always
a delight and not only to look at, she was bright and one of the most able
students that he had ever had the pleasure to teach; not counting Alex Lapski
that is.

There it was again, that name.  Why did his thoughts
always return to Alex Lapski?  He was becoming obsessed with the man.  What a
brilliant student Alex had been and now…?  Yes, now.  The greatest test that
Ben had ever faced in the sixty odd years of his life and it was due entirely
to Alex.

Ben could not help a wry smile.

Alex Lapski; so charismatic, so smooth; and so, so,
dangerous.  A man who had broken the hearts of at least half of the female
students of his year; and he had spent so much of his time taking advantage of
his success with women that his lecturers had despaired of him.  Not Ben
Tiferet, however.  He had seen in the young student a kindred spirit; an
enquiring mind that was keen to dig deep into the hidden meaning of the sacred
texts. 

When they’d had that final meeting they had known each
other for at least ten years, or was it twelve, and Ben had come to trust Alex
with his theories.  Now they were rivals.  Enemies even.  Deadly enemies.

Alex had already begun his quest and all the evidence
pointed to the fact that he was succeeding in his plan.  If so, then Ben knew
that he would need all his cunning and knowledge to stop him.  He just prayed
that he would be up to the task.

Someone coughed and he was pulled from his reverie.  It
was Yaffa, standing there so patiently.

‘Professor?’

‘Sorry.  I was thinking.’

‘I know,’ she laughed, ‘I’ve got it.’

‘You have?  So, what’s his name?’

‘Jacob Tranton.  He lives in England.’

‘England?  Tranton?  What kind of name’s that?’

‘It was changed by his great-grandfather when they first
arrived.  The usual desire to assimilate.  You know.’

Ben smiled.  He did not approve. 

‘So…?’

He looked at his assistant pointedly.

‘So…, you were right?’  Yaffa confirmed.

‘Of course.  I told you so.

‘Now.  See what you can find out about him.’

…………………………………….

As Yaffa left the room Ben opened the top desk drawer and
retrieved a key from the jumbled mess of odds and ends that he stored there. 
He stood up and approached the unsightly floor safe and unlocked the heavy
door.

Lovingly, he removed a plain cardboard box and slowly took
it to his desk.  Carefully he lifted the lid.

Inside there was a velvet pouch, the colour of rich, red
wine and, lying across this, an ancient folded parchment.

He hesitated.  Even he was in awe of the objects before
him.

He took the fragile, ragged, handwritten text that was all
he had managed to find of Abulafia’s Sefer Bereishit and unfolded it.  By
itself it was useless but he was convinced that the rest of the book could be
found and he suspected that a good part of it or indeed another complete copy
was already in the hands of Alex Lapski.

Then he released the draw string of the pouch and emptied
into his hand the opaque red stone with an inscription in old Hebrew carved on
it.  The ancient form of the letters had not been used as a language since before
Roman times and there were few who could read them.  Ben, however; was one of
those few and he knew that the engraving was the Hebrew equivalent of the name
Reuben and that it represented the tribe of that name.  He also knew that this
very stone had been the first stone of the first row that had been part of the
Choshen Mishpat, the Breastplate of Judgement that in Biblical times had been
worn by Aaron and his lineal descendants, the High Priests.

This then was one stone that Alex Lapski would not obtain
but, if the information he had received was correct, Alex already had three
more in his possession and was on his way to finding the rest.  Ben just had to
hope that he would be the first to locate them.  Anything else could be
disastrous.

It all depended on Jacob Tranton.  He prayed that the man
was pliable.

‘Fiona and Jake Tranton,’ called out the perfect tones of
the professional toastmaster.

So elaborate, so formal, and so, so pretentious.

Jake had not been to one of these affairs for years. 
Looking at what lay before him he knew why.  No wonder gentiles thought the
Jews were rolling in money when they allowed themselves to splash out on dos
like this.  Probably cost far more than Uncle Freddy could comfortably afford,
and for what?  To ensure that little Daniel’s Bar Mitzvah party would compare
favourably with those put on by the boy’s friends.  It was sickening.

He guided his wife past the line-up.  Smiled at Uncle
Freddy.

‘Wonderful party.’

‘Enjoy yourself.  I’m so glad you could come.  So this is
Fiona, is it?  Where’s Jake been hiding you?’

Bloody hypocrite.

But he decided not to say anything.  This was not the
place to create a furore about his family’s attitude to him since he had
married outside the faith.  In any case Freddy, at least, was extending an
olive branch now that Dad had died and Jake felt it only polite to accept the
offering.

For twelve years the family had treated him as if he was
dead.  Twelve years; it was ridiculous.

It was not as if any of the family was particularly
religious.  It was just a general understanding that you stayed within the
fold.  Gentiles were out of bounds.  In any case in Dad’s eyes he could never
do anything right.  Not for as long as he could remember.

Well, he had met Fiona, so English, at university and they
had fallen in love.  If that was not a good motive for marriage what was?

That was the irony.  Despite all the talk, all the
condemnation, they had remained together...until now.

Now they were at war; at least it seemed that way.

He smiled at his wife and she smiled back.  They appeared
the loving couple.  No-one here should learn the truth.

She looked as beautiful as ever.  Stunning, blonde, a
bombshell.  Jake well knew that he also could turn female heads; and that was
what had brought them together.  It was a shame that neither of them had really
considered what lay beneath their outward beauty.

They stepped forward.

Everywhere was food.

Tables festooned with edible titbits of the most inviting
kind.

The pink of scotch salmon surrounded by the variegated
greens of assorted lettuce leaves.  Deep fried delicacies to tempt even the
most discerning palate.  Miniature vienna sausages skewered on wooden cocktail
sticks.  Gefilte fish balls, fried and boiled; latkes, bridge rolls, bagels...

The list was endless.

And the guests were pouncing on this feast as if they had
been starving.  Animals in dinner suits … and still the waitresses brought
more.

People were watching him.  Jake knew it.  He could imagine
what they were saying.  Yes, over there.  Didn’t even have the decency not to
point.

Frank Davis, wasn’t it.  Dad’s second cousin, he thought. 
One of the more religious relatives if he remembered correctly.  Yes, he could
imagine what Cousin Frank was saying.

‘Oh look.  There’s that Jacob Tranton.  His poor
father’s not even been dead a month and he’s here with his shiksa wife.’

Well, stuff him if that was what he thought.  He should
look at his own wife as she towered over the little man.  They looked bloody
ridiculous.

 ‘Vol-au-vent, sir?’

‘What?’

Jake took one of the proffered titbits and passed it to
Fiona.  He had one himself.

Delicious.

God, Frank was pointing again.  This time at Fiona.

Well, she was the most ravishing woman here, and the most
sexily dressed.  He did warn her not to wear anything so revealing, not that
she took a blind bit of notice.

‘I’ll wear what I like.  This is the first time your
family has seen me.  If they don’t like my clothes that’s their problem.’

Thank you, Fiona.  But, she was right.  It was not for
them to create a good impression.  They were what they were.

Families, bloody families.

He wished that they never had come.  If the hatchet was
going to be buried there were far easier ways of doing so than at a family
function like this.

They were like two fishes out of water.

Aliens.  That was what they were.

Aliens.

But, maybe they were not that badly off.  Who was that
over there?  Whoever he was he had only entered a few minutes ago and he was
walking around as if in a daze.  A boy in his early twenties wearing heavy
framed glasses and sporting a thick beard.  Even in his dinner suit the guy
looked like a
frummer
[3]
but he was standing alone as if he was completely out of it like a lost puppy.

Poor kid.  He was as nervous as hell.

‘Come on,’ Jake called as he took Fiona’s arm.  Might as
well make conversation.  Try to cheer up the young man.

But it was too late.  Cousin Frank had beaten him to it. 
Well, Frank was fairly religious.  Maybe he knew the kid.

Or did he?

Frank had apparently failed to strike up any form of
conversation and the boy was again alone.

‘Elizabeth and David Isaacson,’ called the toastmaster.

At once, the lone
frummer
turned towards the main
doorway and approached the couple who were passing down the line up.  He gave
the woman a perfunctory kiss on the cheek and greeted the man with a formal
handshake.  There was, however, enough of a resemblance for Jake to surmise
that they were closely related.  The young man’s parents probably.

The father was wearing a blue satin
yarmulke
which
was definitely not the badge of the ultra-orthodox.  Clearly the son was far
more religious than his parents.  That should make for an interesting life at
home.  Whilst Jake was not religious in the slightest he was well aware of the
rigours of orthodoxy; the strict keeping of Saturday as the Sabbath when no
work could be done and the eating only of kosher food and all the minutiae of
the laws of kashrut.  He momentarily wondered whether the Isaacsons had to
change their lifestyle to accommodate their son or whether some other
arrangement was in place.

‘Jake.’

He turned away and towards his wife.

‘What is it?  Who are they?’

‘I don’t know.  It’s just my journalistic instinct I
suppose.  Curiosity.’

‘Why?’

‘The conflict between religiosity and the secular.  It’s
fascinating.’

‘Is it?  I suppose it is if you haven’t managed to get a
life.’

‘Not now, please.’

But he knew that it was too late.  He had given Fiona an
opening and she would ram home the point if she had the chance.

(Bitch!)

‘You’re a complete moron, aren’t you?’

‘But, Fiona...’

‘I just can’t believe you; I really can’t.  It was so
simple.  All you had to do was to post the bloody thing.’

‘What?’ and then it clicked.  The letter to that Mitch
chap.  Why bring it up now?  He’d forgotten all about it.  So she knew that he
had never posted it.  That was all he needed.  It was bad enough being here
facing the hostility of his family.  Now Fiona had to put in her pennyworth.

‘Why can’t you for once in your life show some sense of
responsibility?’

‘Please, Fiona.  We’re in public.  Let’s discuss this at
home.’

‘No.  Listen to me.  You stand here watching some nobody
and see a story in it.  But it’s like all your stories.  No-one’s interested in
them.  Your themes are so esoteric.  Religion, flying saucers, spooks and
spirits.  You’re a bloody good journalist.  We both know you are.  I just want
you to make something of yourself.  Is that too much to ask?

‘Is it?’

But was that the truth?  There was a time when he could
have believed her.  Now it was different.

Mitch.

That name kept on haunting them.

Mitch.

He was Fiona’s friend.

Friend or something else?

Maybe he was being suspicious of nothing.

Mitch.  He had recently been appointed editor of one of
the local free-sheets.  Apparently it had been his suggestion for Jake to apply
for a job with the paper.  If he was having an affair with Fiona, he wouldn’t
have suggested that.  Surely not.

Anyway, a permanent job was one of the very last things
that Jake could have wanted.

Why couldn’t Fiona ever understand?  Jake was content
freelancing.

‘There’ll be other opportunities.’

‘Will there?  I’m pleased to hear it, and then what?  It
couldn’t‘ve been any easier.  Mitch had it all arranged.  You know; sometimes I
despair of you.’

He shook his head.  There was nothing he could say.

‘Jake.’

Thank God.  Relief.  He turned to see who was greeting him
in such apologetic tones.  It was Uncle Phil.  Dad’s younger brother.  Another
one who had ignored him since his marriage.

Aunt Carole accompanied him

‘Philip.’

‘Jake.  It’s good to see you again.’

‘Is it?  I haven’t prevented you from coming to see me.’

‘I know.  I’m sorry.  I’m so, so sorry.  I never approved
of your father’s attitude, you know that, but when…(you know), I promised him. 
You know what he was like.  A hard man, stubborn.  You’re a lot like him in so
many ways.’

‘Thanks.’

‘It’s true.

‘Look, Jake.  Can we talk in private?  Leave Carole to
talk to Fiona.’

‘If you like.’

‘Please, don’t make this any harder than it is.’

Jake tried his best.  It had been so many years.  None of
them had spoken to him and now, now that Dad was gone, they all wanted to be
friendly.  Was Dad so powerful?

But of course he was.  Everyone was in awe of him.  Except
for Jake.  Jake was not in awe of anyone.  Sometimes he wondered if that was
the real reason he married Fiona.  To spite his father.  His father who had
always hated him.

No.  It was one of the reasons but only one of them.  A
little thing called love played its part.

He followed his uncle towards the car park.

‘So, Jake.  How’ve you been keeping?’

‘All right.’

‘Good.  But things aren’t working out so well with Fiona
are they?’

Jake turned about and began walking away.  He was prepared
to make peace but only on his terms.

‘No, wait, please.  This is nothing to do with your
marrying out.  What’s done is done.  It’s not my concern.  I saw you arguing.’

‘Oh.’

‘Well?’

He paused.  He really did not want to discuss it with
Phil.  They had not spoken for twelve years and now they were talking about the
one thing that had caused the split in the first place.

But in Jake’s single days Phil had always been his
friend.  Phil had been the one who had always sided with him during his many
arguments with Dad.  Until that final one that is.  No, Jake had come to this
party.  He had known that it was going to be hard.  He had prepared himself for
it.  He would not be the one to refuse the olive branch.

‘I don’t know, Phil.  Let’s not discuss Fiona.’

‘All right.  Anyway, that’s not what I want to speak to
you about.

‘I have something for you in the boot.’

Phil lifted the lid and removed a familiar blue and white
Tesco bag.

‘This is for you.’

‘What is it?’

Jake opened the bag.  Inside, all there was was an old tin
cigar box.

‘You don’t recognise it?’

‘Should I?’

‘You never saw Robert with it?’

‘No.’

Phil seemed to start back.

‘I don’t believe him, I really don’t.  My dear brother,
your Dad, has never shown this to you?  It’s incredible.  He never trusted you
did he?  Okay, Jake, I’ll tell you.’

‘Tell me what?  You’re sounding mysterious.’

‘In that box is a ring.  No, don’t open it now.  Wait
until you are home.  That ring has been passed down to every first-born male in
the family generation by generation until now.  Robert always said that you
shouldn’t have it.  He gave it to me but it’s not right.  It belongs to you.’

Jake shook his head.  This was crazy.  An ancient family
heirloom, so what?

‘Listen.  The ring has value.  There are people who would
stop at nothing to lay their hands on it.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.  None of us know.  The ring is yours now,
guard it well.’

‘Oh, stop being so melodramatic.  What can be special
about an old ring?’

He reached into the bag.

‘No, Jake…, please.’

And Phil seemed genuinely frightened.

‘All right.  I’ll take the whole thing home.  I’ll put it
in my car.’

‘In the boot, not on display.’

‘In the boot, sure.’

‘Thank you, Jake.  That’s taken a load off my mind.’

And the amazing thing was that Phil really seemed to mean
it.  Jake was curious.  There was a story here.  More than that, he was
becoming a part of one.

………………………………………

‘What was all that about?’

Jake was back with Fiona and approaching their table.

‘I don’t know.  Something about a ring.’

‘A ring?’

‘Yes, I’ll show you later.  Let’s see the menu.’

The meal was typical of one of these affairs.  Melon followed
by chicken soup, chicken, roast potatoes and
tzimmes
[4]
,
with profiteroles and hot cherry sauce for pudding.  Then came the speeches (as
boring as ever), the Grace after Meals and the dancing to the sound of the
Jerry Georges Ensemble.  Nothing special.  The Isaacson boy was not taking any
part.  So, so predictable.  Poor kid.  Religion was definitely a bad disease.

It was as Jake wildly launched himself to the strains of
Jumping Jack Flash that he noticed someone keel over at the edge of the dance floor.

At once the music stopped and he rushed over to keep away
the revellers.  That was when he realised that it was his Uncle Phil.