When they left the café, Tamara said to her father, “We’ve informed Zahara; what else is there for us to do?” Papa Manfred said, “What else is there for us to do? Believe it or not, I don’t know. I simply don’t know.” He suddenly looked at her with affection and said warmly, “You’ve been treating me like a child who needs a nursemaid. I stand around, not knowing what to do, until you tell me. Very simply, I don’t know what to do. You see, Tamara, there’s material for a tragedy here. A sensible man, father of daughters, suddenly loses his mind, and, if not for his young daughter, he would be desolate. If not for you, Tamara, I would be like King Lear in his time. You never heard of King Lear? I would normally be furious about that, but I’ll let it go for now. So, Tamara, what should we be doing? What, in your opinion, should we be doing? It seems to me that all we have to do is hop on the bus, go home, and tell Sarah that they brought her mother a baby. I leave it to you to figure out how to construct the story about the baby — whether it was delivered by an angel or a stork. They both have wings. Whom did we leave Sarah with? I think that, when we left home, Firadeus wasn’t there. No, she wasn’t. She definitely wasn’t there, and we left the child with no one to look after her! As you see, Tamara, there are times when a sane person has a lapse and does something he shouldn’t do. I’m philosophizing while the poor child is home alone! It’s possible that Firadeus didn’t come at all.” Tamara said, “Don’t worry, Papa. Sarah isn’t home alone.” Father Manfred said, “She isn’t home alone? How can you say she isn’t home alone? If Firadeus didn’t come, then the child is surely there alone. How come I didn’t think of it sooner? I’ll call a taxi, so we can hurry home.” Tamara said, “It’s not necessary to hurry, and we don’t need a taxi.” Father Manfred said, “How can you say it’s not necessary? I really have to admit that I don’t understand you. A little girl is home alone, and you say, ‘It’s not necessary.’ Please, why isn’t it necessary?” Tamara said, “Because she isn’t alone.” Father Manfred said, “You already told me that.” Tamara said, “That’s what I said, and that’s how it is.” Father Manfred said, “Please, Tamara, help me understand. I don’t have much imagination. We left the house, and there was no one home but Sarah, yet you insist — “ Tamara said, “I asked Ursula not to go to her office, so she could be with Sarah.” Manfred said, “You asked Ursula to stay with Sarah, but you didn’t tell me?” Tamara said, “I did tell you.” Father Manfred said, “You told me just now, but earlier, when I was frantic, you didn’t say a word.” Tamara said, “Until you were frantic, there was no reason to tell you.” Father Manfred said, “If you had told me earlier, I wouldn’t have become frantic. What do you think, Tamara? Is there something between her and Taglicht?” Tamara glanced at her father questioningly and said, “Her? Whom do you have in mind?” Father Manfred said, “Between Ursula and Taglicht.” Tamara said, “I didn’t notice.” Father Manfred said, “You didn’t notice?” Tamara said, “I don’t view the world in terms of what goes on between males and females.” Father Manfred smiled and gazed at his daughter with a mix of affection, surprise, and envy, and said, “How do you view the world?” Tamara said, “The world? How do I view it? The entire world concerns me about as much as a single nit in an Arab’s keffiyah. Father Manfred asked his daughter, “What are you concerned with?” “What am I concerned with? Our immediate world.” Father Manfred asked his daughter, “What about our immediate world?” Tamara said, “The issues that concern me are liberty, freedom, casting off the foreign yoke.” Father Manfred said, “What does freedom mean?” Tamara said, “Freedom from the English and their Zionist agents, from Weizmann and his agents, from those who head the Jewish Agency and the Labor Party. Some monstrous Englishman, from some dingy cellar in London or from the House of Lords, appoints himself master of our fate, ruling our world according to the decrees of some other monster, possibly just like him. One well-aimed kick and they’ll be out of this country.” Manfred said, “The Arabs want to throw us into the sea, and you want to throw out the English.” Tamara said, “Out of the country, not into the sea. That’s the difference between us and those desert savages. We’ve improved their lives in so many ways — raised them out of their filth, supplied them with food, replaced their rags with real clothes, provided doctors to cure their eyes — yet they want to throw us into the sea. But they relate to the English like servile dogs. I promise you this, Papa, the Arabs won’t throw us into the sea. In fact, they ought to praise Allah and thank him for the fact that the Jews won’t throw them into the sea.” Herbst pursed his lips and said, “Is that so?” Tamara said, “Yes, Papa. Yes. That’s how it is, and more so.” Father Manfred said, “Jews are merciful; they’re not cruel. But I can tell you this, my child: when a Jew becomes cruel, woe unto his people. When the merciful become cruel, they are worse than those who were born cruel. But back to our subject: how do you expect to get both the Arabs and the English out of this country? Tell me, please, how will you do it?” “How?” Tamara said. “If I were clever, I would answer you. Anyway, it won’t happen the way I imagine it. But what I have told you is definite, guaranteed. I promise that you will see it for yourself.” Father Manfred said, “And can you promise that I’ll enjoy it?” Tamara said, “That depends on you. I myself can imagine no greater pleasure than national power, a people that is vigorous and mighty.” Manfred said, “That Englishman from a dank cellar in London will be replaced by a Revisionist from Odessa, or from some village in Poland, Lithuania, Galicia, or Mea Shearim, and he will tell me what to do. This is what I think: a powerful Gentile, from a powerful country accustomed to power, so that its lust for power has been modulated, is to be preferred to a young Jew whose evil ambitions remain unbridled. Dear Tamara, don’t look so menacing. I won’t say another word, if you wish. But if you have the fortitude to hear the opinion of a man who has seen an orderly world, who has seen war, who has seen revolution follow in its wake, who has read books, I am willing to share my opinions with you, based on what I have seen in books and what I understand from life. I assume, Tamara, that you prefer life to books. Let me begin with my childhood. Will it be hard for you if we walk?” Tamara said, “And you, Papa. Will it be hard for you if we walk?” Father Manfred said, “I don’t credit myself with having taught you many things, so let me teach you one thing that is worth learning.” “What is it?” Father Manfred said, “If someone asks you a question, don’t use the same words when questioning him.” “Why not?” Father Manfred said, “As an exception to the rule, I will begin my answer using your words. Why not? Because that proves to the person you are arguing with that he has influence, if not on your ideas, then on your style. Now, my child, we can go back to the beginning, if you like. But tell me first, do you mind if we walk?” Tamara laughed and said, “What do you want to know first, whether I’m a good student or whether you’re a good teacher?” Father Manfred said, “It’s all the same, isn’t it? A good student learns from his teacher, and a good teacher turns out a decent student. I’m afraid that, with so many asides, we’ll never get to the heart of the matter. If you’re ready to hear, I’ll get back to the subject.”
But Manfred didn’t get back to the subject, not because of all the asides, but because they were home.