by Katz, Yoram
“Rivals? In what?”
“They had an academic dispute… something to do with the history of early Christianity. The details are unimportant, but the fact is that they have not spoken in years.”
“Interesting.” Arnon wrote something in his notebook. “What do you think got them together today?”
“I have no idea.”
"Finally we have something you don’t know,” noted Arnon and rose from the couch. “Let’s get to work, then.”
* * *
Luria entered the living room with Arnon. It was the same hospitable room he remembered from his previous visits but the atmosphere was dramatically changed. On the couch Jeanne once occupied, now sat the officer who had shown him in. Two men in civilian clothes sat beside him. Luria looked at the younger one and decided he was a detective. The other had a swollen leather case beside him – the doctor. On the couch just opposite them sat Professor Orlev. There was absolutely no resemblance between the alert, animated professor, who had always insisted on preparing his special blend of tea for his guests, and the man now occupying the couch. Luria saw an old man, with disheveled, sparse white hair and red eyes, staring emptily at the floor. Professor Orlev looked a total wreck.
The old man now raised his head, looked at Luria and his eyes lit up. He made an effort to get up from his couch, but immediately fell back. Luria approached him and shook his hand. The handshake was feeble. Orlev was exhausted.
“What happened?” asked Luria gently. “What can I do to help, Professor?”
Orlev moved uneasily on his couch. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His lips quivered, and he had difficulty speaking up. “Disaster… catastrophe…” he finally mumbled and sank back on his couch.
Luria served him a glass of water. Orlev raised the glass to his lips with a trembling hand and sipped from it. Luria then retrieved the glass from him and put it back on the table.
“Thank you for coming…” said the old man. “I asked… I wanted… to talk to you before I talk to the police.”
Luria wanted to say something, but the professor raised his hand weakly. “Do not refuse an old man, Mr. Luria. I need your help. You know all about investigations and police business, and I can tell that you are a good and honest man. I trust you. I want to talk to you in private.”
Luria turned to Arnon. “Is this OK with you?”
“This is a bit unusual,” observed Arnon. “But I guess these are unusual circumstances. I had had some time to think this over before you arrived. I am OK with that.”
Luria thought a moment. “I am a private investigator,” he said. “I expect every conversation between me and my client, Professor Orlev, to remain private.”
“This is fine,” said Arnon. “I have no problem with that. We have also offered the professor to call a lawyer if he wishes to, but he insisted on you.”
“Well then,” said Luria. “I will thank you for leaving me and the professor alone.”
Arnon signaled with his hand, and everybody left the room. Luria and Orlev were alone.
“Well, Professor,” Luria tried to sound as matter-of-factly as possible, “what did you want to talk to me about?”
* * *
About fifteen minutes later, Luria invited Arnon and his men back into the living room. Yeshayahu Orlev sat on his couch, his head bent down on his chest.
Luria addressed Arnon. “Professor Orlev told me all he knew about what happened in Professor Bennet’s house today. I advised him to share all this information with you, and he agreed to do so.”
“I am very glad to hear that,” said Arnon and turned to Orlev. “Professor, please take all the time you need and tell us what happened. I remind you again of your right to have a lawyer present.”
Orlev raised his head. “I have no need for a lawyer,” he stated firmly. “Mr. Luria here was kind enough to explain to me all I needed to know, and I have nothing to hide.” He closed his eyes.
“Well, then,” said Arnon, “we are listening.”
Orlev remained silent, with his eyes closed. For a moment, Luria thought the old man had fallen asleep, but then the professor suddenly opened his eyes.
“Jonathan Bennet was my student thirty-five years ago,” he began in a strange, hoarse voice. “He was a brilliant student…” he paused for a second. “He was one of the two most brilliant students I have ever had…” a shadow crossed the old man’s face.
Luria knew who the other student was and how much she meant to the old man.
“I loved him like a son, and I was very unhappy when he decided to go back to the states for his doctorate. When he returned to the Hebrew University, about ten years ago, I was a happy man. Jonathan specialized in Christian History, and I do Jewish History. Our reunion proved very prolific. For a few years, we cooperated and published a number of articles together, which won praise and attention. About four years ago we had a dispute, which caused our relationship to be virtually terminated.”
“What was the reason for this falling out?” asked Arnon.
“An academic dispute,” answered Orlev brusquely.
“Would you be kind enough to share this with us?”
“Jonathan developed a ridiculous theory about the origins of Kabbalah and its ties with Christianity. Between the two of us, I was the authority on Kabbalah, yet Jonathan would not accept my opinion that this was a misconception and started publishing his ideas on his own. He was refuting me in public. This highlighted other disagreements we had and drove us apart.”
Arnon intervened. “Just a moment, please. Jonathan Bennet… Isn’t he the scholar in front of whose house a ‘Pulsa Denura’ ritual was held a few weeks ago?”
“Yes,” said Orlev. “Many people disliked what Jonathan had to say. Among them were those lunatics in black, a bunch of Hassidim who call themselves Kabbalists, without having the faintest idea what Kabbalah really means… I have nothing to do with these misfits. My dispute with Jonathan was purely academic. His basic assumptions were shaky, and he would not listen to me. It made me furious, and it destroyed our friendship. I now understand this was foolish of me… I acted like a child. I loved Jonathan like a son, and I miss him terribly…” His lips started quivering and he fought the tears that were coming to his eyes by pressing a handkerchief against them.
Finally, he managed to get hold of himself. “And now he is gone. My two most brilliant students… both gone now. He was like family to me, and I wasted these last four years on a stupid quarrel… what folly… what an old fool…” His voice broke up and tears flooded his eyes again.
“Two students?” Arnon did not understand.
“The other student was Ruth, the professor’s late wife,” said Luria to him quietly and Arnon nodded.
The professor wiped his eyes with his handkerchief and took a sip of water from his glass. “Ten days ago,” he resumed, “Jonathan called me. He wanted us to meet. He said that what had been going on between us two made no sense. He said that I meant a lot to him and that no academic dispute could justify the pain we were inflicting on each other. He took much of the blame on himself and insisted that we stop acting like spoiled children.” Orlev raised his head and gazed at the group of people sitting opposite him. “And he was right, of course. He was the wiser man. You see… I was the older man… I was the one who should have been saying these things… and years ago…” He sipped weakly from his glass again.
“I invited him to come here on Saturday,” he continued hoarsely. “He was sitting where you are sitting now, and we talked. We made peace and then we stood up and embraced. It felt so good! And today… I cannot forgive myself…” The old man choked up and then started sobbing.
Arnon waited patiently until the crying subsided. “Professor Orlev,” he said, almost in a whisper, “can you please tell us what happened this morning?”
Orlev raised his eyes. “We made an appointment to meet at Jonathan’s home today at 10 AM. My son, Naphtali, who spends much of his time in a s
pecial boarding house, is staying with me this week. You see, Naphtali is a child with special needs…”
Arnon nodded. “I understand.”
“I brought him along with me,” said Orlev. “Jonathan had not seen Naphtali for years and was very glad to see him. He made us some tea, and we sat down to chat. Perhaps it was Naphtali’s presence that triggered it… Anyway, our chat turned to events which had taken place many years ago. We talked about my late wife, Ruth. Jonathan knew her very well, as they both used to be my students and research assistants at the time. He told me how much he had appreciated her… and then…” He turned pale and his voice faded away.
Luria rose to his feet, afraid that the professor was going to collapse, but Orlev signaled with his hand that he was all right. He raised the glass to his lips with two trembling hands and sipped some water. He then slowly put it back.
“And what happened then?” asked Arnon softly, after it looked as if the professor would stay silent forever.
Orlev gave out a heart-wrenching groan. “Jonathan said he wanted to talk openly about everything, so that we could resume our friendship free from the shadows of the past. He started talking about Ruth, telling me things that I did not know… things I did not want to know… it was very hard for me. I asked him to stop… I said I had had enough, that I did not want to hear anymore. But he went on and on… and then I lost control. I stood up and slapped him. I demanded that he take back what he had said… that he apologize for offending the memory of my late wife… he did not pay attention… he kept on talking. He said that it had weighed on him all those years…”
Arnon and his men exchanged glances.
“And then… I don’t know what possessed me… I slapped him again and again… Jonathan is much taller than me and a very strong man. He stepped back to get away from me… and then it happened...” He burst into crying.
“What happened?” Asked Arnon when Orlev had calmed down a bit.
“As Jonathan was stepping back, he stumbled on a chair, fell, and his head hit the table. He dropped to the carpet and did not move…”
“And what did you do then?” Arnon demanded to know.
“I was crazed with fear,” said Orlev. “First of all, I had to calm down Naphtali. He became hysterical, and I was afraid he would have one of those seizures of his. I could not help Jonathan anyway, and I had to get Naphtali out of there as soon as possible. I walked him outside… somehow, I managed to seat him in the car and then I immediately called for help. All this time I was trying to soothe Naphtali… I drove straight home, gave Naphtali a sedative and put him to sleep… and then the police came…”
Arnon and his detective exchanged glances again. They appeared mystified.
“Professor,” It was now the detective, who spoke slowly and deliberately. “In Bennet’s palm we found shreds of paper, perhaps a part of a document. Do you have any idea what he was holding?”
Luria was puzzled. He turned to see Orlev’s response. If Orlev knew anything, it did not show on his face. He shook his head. “I don’t know…”
“Professor,” The detective kept pushing. “The safe in Bennet’s bedroom was broken into. Do you happen to know what Bennet was keeping there?”
“I don’t know…” mumbled Orlev, and then he groaned. “God, what have I done… this is like a nightmare… and all of it is my fault…”
“Is that all?” The detective was not easily discouraged. “Are you sure there is nothing else you can tell us?”
Orlev looked at him in wonder. “‘Is that all?’ What do you mean by that? A man is dead… and this is all my fault!”
Arnon cleared his throat. “Professor Orlev, do you happen to own a gun?”
“A gun?” Orlev was shocked. “No, never.”
“Professor, are you sure you have told us everything?” The detective tried once again.
“Just a moment,” intervened Luria. “What is the meaning of all this? What are you two driving at?”
Arnon raised his hand to silence Luria. “Professor, will you please answer?”
“I told you everything I know,” said Orlev weakly.
“Then, Professor,” demanded Arnon, “how would you explain the fact that Jonathan Bennet was killed by a bullet to the forehead?”
40. An Old Friend - Jerusalem, February 25th, 2010 (Thursday)
As he had requested in his will, Jonathan Bennet was buried in the Christian Cemetery on Mount Zion. A large crowd gathered to escort Bennet to his final resting place. Luria was there too, with Jeanne at his side, her face wrapped in a black scarf. There were no relatives present and Luria wondered whether the man had any close family at all. Virtually everyone there was from the academic world, including a group of young men, whom Luria assumed to be students of the late Bennet.
An elegant man of sixty or so, who was standing near them, turned to Jeanne and asked her something in French. Jeanne smiled and they exchanged a few sentences, after which the man thanked her and moved away.
“Who is this man?” wondered Luria.
“I don’t really know,” answered Jeanne. “He introduced himself as Anatole Lambert, a Frenchman. He recognized me for a Frenchwoman, said he was an old friend of Bennet’s and inquired whether I knew Professor Orlev. After I said I did, he pointed at the professor over there and asked me to verify this indeed was Orlev. He explained that they had not met in many years, and that he was not sure whether he could identify him.”
Luria looked at Orlev. The professor has made a remarkable recovery in the two days since the incident. The police had many questions for him, but he was never considered a suspect. The professor was now engaged in conversation with a man in a dark suit, whom Luria recognized from his appearances in the media as the President of the Hebrew University. Luria also noticed Lambert, the Frenchman whom Jeanne had talked to minutes before, making his way through the crowd towards Orlev.
The Christian ceremony ended. The President of the University gave a short speech and was followed by Professor Orlev, who mourned his ex-student, colleague and friend. The professor talked about a brilliant, groundbreaking researcher and said that while they had their academic differences, “from a dispute with Professor Jonathan Bennet, one could learn much more than from agreeing with many other learned scholars.”
A few more people spoke, but Luria was not listening and kept watching Orlev. With everything he knew about the relationship between the two professors and about the tragedy of Bennet’s death, Luria wondered what was really going through the professor’s head.
The last flower arrangements were placed upon the fresh grave, and the crowd started to disperse. Luria saw Lambert, the Frenchman, advancing towards Orlev. The moving crowd separated them, but the man was determined. Eventually, he reached the professor from behind and touched his shoulder. The professor turned around. First, it seemed, he did not recognize the stranger, but a few sentences spoken by the Frenchman changed that. The professor caught his head with both hands in a gesture of disbelief. He looked flabbergasted but immediately recovered and shook the man’s hand warmly. The two started walking together and talking enthusiastically. However, soon Orlev had to relate to other dignitaries who came to see him, and the two men parted with a long and hearty handshake.
Luria turned to Jeanne. “I want to speak to this man.”
“What man?” Jeanne was lost in her own thoughts. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“The Frenchman, Lambert. He knows the professor. I want to speak to him.”
“What about?” wondered Jeanne.
“I don’t know, Jeanne, but I, too, have my intuitions. The man knew Orlev and Bennet many years ago, and we may learn something from him. It does not look like he knows anybody here besides Orlev, and the professor has no time for him. I believe he will be very pleased if a fellow countrywoman invited him to chat over a cup of coffee or even lunch.”
* * *
“Jonathan Bennet was my fellow student at the Hebrew Universit
y long time ago,” said Anatole Lambert. “We actually shared a room in the dorms.”
The three were sitting in a quiet Jerusalem restaurant. Luria was right. The man was alone in town and desperate for company. Jeanne told him she was a history student who came to interview Bennet and Orlev about a thesis she was writing, and Lambert did not ask too many questions. He was thankful for the unexpected company in a foreign country and was happy to have lunch with them. He turned out to be an open, cordial man, as well as an enthusiastic consumer of good food and a great fan of Israeli wine.
The main course was already past them and the third bottle of wine was resting on the table, with Lambert the main consumer of its predecessors. His mood was improving with every glass.
“Are you a historian, too?” asked Jeanne.
“Not really,” replied Lambert. “I came here and studied for my bachelor’s degree because I was interested in the country and its people, but I did not pursue this further. I returned to France to study architecture, my real passion. I own a small architecture firm in Paris.
Jeanne was impressed. “This is a real change of direction. What brought you to Israel in the first place?”
Lambert sighed. “This is a personal story. I would not want to bore you with it.” He suddenly looked very tired.
“No, please,” implored Jeanne. “We would love to hear your story.”
“OK,” said the Frenchman and sighed again. The cheerfulness he had radiated before was deserting him now.
He took a few seconds to collect himself.
“It all started with that damned war,” he began. “You see, I was born in France a couple of years after World War II. I generally knew what happened, because they told us about it in school, but my parents never talked about the war and I never asked too many questions. When I was about sixteen, the papers started printing stories about collaborators with the Nazis. It was not a subject the French liked to talk about; we still don’t. It surfaced under the pressure of a persistent newspaper. Lists were published, and one of the names mentioned was my father’s.