"And how do you go about it?" asked Miriam. "Do you stop people on the street?"
"Sometimes I do. Mrs. Small, but I don't tell them I want to interview them because then they would either freeze up or say what they think you want them to say. I try to be a little more subtle. Here's a man walking along the street. So I ask him how to get to someplace that is in the general direction he's heading. Usually they say they're going that way, and we walk along together. We start to talk, and if it sounds as though it's going to be interesting. I switch on my tape recorder— I control it from a device in my pocket— so they don't know they're being taped. Then when I get back to my room. I label everything so that I can collate it. edit it, and write it up at my leisure."
"Are your interviews in English or Hebrew or what?" asked the rabbi.
"I have them in Hebrew. Yiddish, English and even French. My Yiddish is excellent; my French not too bad. My conversational Hebrew is all right, too. I’ve been here about a dozen times. The last time was for more than a year. I'd say it was adequate. Occasionally I strike a tough one. as I did the other day. He was an intellectual, and he used words I'd never heard before. But that's another advantage of the taping method. I can play it over and over again and look up the words I don't know in the dictionary."
"But how were you able to frame your replies or the next question if you didn't understand what he said?" asked the rabbi.
"Oh, I got the gist of it all right. It's the subtle nuances that I felt I was missing. Would you like to hear some of my tapes sometime?"
"Yes, very much." said the rabbi, "although I don't think my college French would be up to following a conversation."
"I don't have too many in French, just some that I got in a restaurant where there were a lot of Sephardic Jews from North Africa. I tell you what, maybe you'd like to come along. If you're not doing anything tomorrow morning—"
"Nothing urgent."
"You, too, Mrs. Small."
"Oh, I'd like to, but I have to be at Hadassah in the morning."
When they met the next morning. Stedman said. "Perhaps it's just as well that Mrs. Small couldn't make it. It might be harder to develop a conversation if there were three of us."
"I suppose so. By the way, Miriam asked me to ask you if you'd care to take dinner with us tomorrow night. And we'd like to have your son come. too. When you mentioned on the phone you had a son in the university, we rather expected he might be with you last night."
"Well, Roy is kept pretty busy. I see him about once a week; we have dinner together. I try not to interfere in his life too much. I'm not sure he'll be able to make it tomorrow night, but I'll ask him."
"I thought tomorrow being the Sabbath he'd be likely to be free. He might enjoy a Sabbath meal, and I'd like to meet him."
"I'd like you to meet him. Rabbi." He hesitated and came to a decision. "To tell the truth, I'm at something of a loss as to how to deal with him. After I was divorced from his mother— he was ten at the time— I had visiting rights, of course, but my work was apt to keep me away from the States for long periods of time. My wife wouldn't let me make up the time lost when I was home, and I don't blame her, because it would have disrupted his life. But the net result was that I didn't see much of Roy. except a day now and then. I tried to keep in touch with him— letters, phone calls— but it wasn't the same thing. I thought that with both of us here alone, we'd get to know each other. But he's cold, distant. I can't seem to reach him. Sometimes I think he resents me. If I try to interest myself in his work, in his problems, if I try to advise him. he acts as though I'm intruding on his private affairs."
"You probably are."
"But I'm his father."
"Biologically, " said the rabbi. "Your son treats you like a stranger because you are a stranger."
They stopped at the curb for the traffic light to change. Stedman waited until they had crossed before answering. "But what am I supposed to do? I see him doing all sorts of foolish things. Am I supposed to see him make mistakes and not interfere? As near as I can make out. all his friends at the university are Arabs. When I suggest that he cultivate some of the Jewish students, that his present associates might be unwise or even dangerous, he only gets annoyed with me."
"Just as you'd be annoyed with him if he presumed to criticize your friends."
"There's a difference."
"Not much, really, and none in his eyes." The rabbi shrugged.
"So what's the answer?"
"There might not be any. at least not the kind you hope for. If you think of him as a stranger, as a young man whom you've met but whom you have no claim on, after a while you might get to be friends."
Stedman spread his hands, pleading with the rabbi to understand. "But I want to help him. I want to help him shape his life, influence him. steer him in the right direction."
"Well, as a friend you might be able to." The rabbi could see that Stedman was disappointed and that his advice was not likely to be taken. They walked along in silence for a block, and then suddenly Stedman seized his arm and pointed.
"There, that could be the answer."
The rabbi looked about, but saw nothing unusual.
"That sign: Memavet Auto Brokerage Agency. When I first came. I told Roy I was planning to get a car to tour the country, and I invited him to come with me to pick one out. Come to think of it. he was pretty enthusiastic about that."
"And you think if you got a car. that would do it?"
"Rabbi, unless you know how kids feel about cars, you don't know kids. Do you mind stopping in for a minute? This place advertises in the papers. I'll just see what the deal is and what sort of cars they have to offer."
It was a repair shop with several disemboweled cars being worked on. In one corner, near the window, was a flat-topped desk, untidy with dusty papers, with a cardboard sign set in a wooden holder: MEMAVET AUTO BROKERAGE AGENCY. An elderly mechanic with a beard approached them.
"Mr. Memavet?"
The mechanic pointed to the desk. "You want the Memavet Agency? That's it." He pointed to the desk. "Memavet is not in. He's been out sick a couple of days."
"Isn't this his place? Isn't there somebody else I can talk to?"
"No. We got nothing to do with Memavet. He just rents the desk space."
"Oh." Stedman was disappointed.
"You wanted to see him about a car. maybe? Buying or selling?"
"I'm interested in buying, but—"
"So go to see him at his house." the bearded mechanic said. "It's all right. Sometimes, even when he's well, he stays home for a few days. The same business he does here, he can do there."
"Well I thought I'd look at his stock and^-"
The mechanic laughed. "He has no stock. He doesn't work that way. You tell him what you want, and he tries to get it for you. He's a crazy old man, but I'll say this for him. he knows cars and he'll give you a good buy."
"In what way is he crazy?" the rabbi asked. "Is it because he gives good buys?"
"Your young friend is a joker." said the mechanic. He went on to explain. "He's crazy because his mind works funny. He's had troubles that he'll tell you about at the drop of a hat. But who hasn't had troubles, especially in this country? Take his name: Memavet. 'From death'— is that the name a sane man would choose?" He shrugged. "But he knows cars, and he's honest. If he sells you a car, he'll tell you exactly what condition it's in, and you can believe him."
"Well, maybe I'll call him." said Stedman. "Do you have his phone number at home?"
"He doesn't have a phone yet. He moved into a new place. There's a public phone in the lobby of the house, just outside his door, but I don't know the number. But you don't have to phone him in advance. Just go to see him. He'll be home, all right."
"Well, if he's sick—"