THE PRODIGAL SON

 THE PRODIGAL SON

 by Richard Banks                    

Dear Luke,

      Thank you for sending me a copy of your latest parable, which I gather will be published in a collection of your other works. It was very considerate of you to ask us for our comments. You were, of course, under no obligation to do so; after all, none of us are mentioned by name. Nevertheless, your sensitivity in writing to us is much appreciated.  Solly, God bless him, would have loved it. He was always a sucker for a good morality tale and often said that no one wrote them better than you. When he told you about the problems we were having with young Zach, I suspect he was hoping that one day you would write it up, in your usual discreet way. Thank you for sticking with his version of events. It wasn’t quite like that of course - I mean compassionate father forgiving erring son - but that’s the way he saw it, the way he wanted to be remembered, so thanks again.

      I have not mentioned your parable to the boys; it will only stir things up again. Even after all these years they are barely talking. Josh still blames Zach for blowing all that money and Zach is tired of being reminded of it. Fortunately, neither care much for stories, so they are unlikely to read what you have written. Let’s hope they don’t, sleeping dogs and all that.  

      My only criticism of your story is where are the women? In particular, why no mention of me? Let’s face it, without me none of this would have happened - Zach would never have been born and Josh would have had the whole darn estate to himself. Surely I’m worth a couple of lines? The full story is even more interesting and will no doubt furnish you with ideas for further parables. Allow me to tell you what happened.

      You will, I’m sure, be aware that I was not Solly’s first wife. That honour was bestowed on the blessed Lizabeth, a paragon of domestic virtue, who flipped her clogs trying to save Solly’s fattened calf from a marauding lion. No doubt he told you all about it - if not, why not? - he’s told me plenty of times. What he probably didn’t say was that we met six months later, at the Shady Lady club in downtown Jericho. You know the kind of place - dim lights, overpriced booze and a good-time girl for every sad Joe who stumbles across the threshold. You can guess where I fitted in. The trick was to keep the client drinking. Every drink meant two denarius for me. A drink for him and one for me was four denarius. Just keep him talking, flatter him, laugh at his stupid jokes; promise him anything, but keep him at the table until his money bag is empty.

      It might have been enjoyable had the clients been more interesting than their camels; even in the looks department they weren’t much better. Compared to them, Solly was a knight in shining armour. As soon as he walked through the door I could see he was different, although what he was up to was less than clear. He didn’t act like a regular punter. Regular punters just pick a girl and drink themselves silly. Solly looked like he was at a speed dating event, moving rapidly from table to table, asking all the girls the same questions -  “what’s your name? what house do you belong to?”

      “Why do you want to know?” I said, when he got round to me.

      “Look lady, it’s not a state secret. Just tell me, and you can buy yourself something nice with this.” He dropped a ten denarius coin onto the table and covered it with his hand.

      When I told him I was Marty, of the house of Benjamin, his face lit up like he had won the lottery. “Hallelujah!” he shouted. “Here she is at last.”

      “But I’ve been here all the time,” I said.

      “Allow me to explain,” he says. It was a rather long explanation - you know what Solly was like when he got going - so I’ll cut to the chase as they say. Solly had gone to see a soothsayer working the hotel circuit along the Dead Sea. “Will I get married again?” he shouts from the back of the hall. The soothsayer rolls his eyes and straight away has a vision of Solly standing at the altar with a broad in a meringuey wedding dress. “What’s her name?” yells Solly. For several minutes the soothsayer says nothing, just stands there, kind of shaking and staring into space. Eventually, he says, “Marty, of the House of Benjamin.” “Where do I find her?” Solly hollers, getting more and more agitated. “How do I know,” says the soothsayer, “I’m only watching the nuptials.”

      Any other man would just have waited until he met me; after all, if you marry someone it stands to reason you first got to meet them. Not Solly, of course. He’s got to make it happen now, so he runs up and down the country asking every woman he meets what her name is. After a while, he gets a tip-off about a girl called Marty working in a Jericho bar, and sure enough, he finds me. However, I wasn’t at all sure about what he was proposing. “Why should I marry you?” I said.

      “Sugar,” he says, “it’s meant to be, it’s our fate, we can’t escape it.”

      “Wanna bet,” I said. “I can walk out that door and do any darn thing I want.”

      “Look,” he says. “I’m a rich man. I’ve got two vineyards and a farm. Whatever you’re earning I’ll double it.”

      “What!” I said, “you’re going to pay me for being your wife?”

      “Think of it as an allowance,” he says. “Now put on your coat, we’re wasting time.”

      One hour later I was Mrs Ginberg, and on a fast camel, heading for the family estate. It was then that he told me about the sprog, little Josh.

      “Little Josh?” I said, “that wasn’t part of the deal.”

      “He’s nearly ten,” says Solly, “he’s house-trained, he won’t be any trouble. Anyway, everyone loves little Josh.”

      As soon as he said it, I knew I was going to be the exception. I mean, what do you say to a kid who spends his spare time studying corporate finance.  Lord knows I tried. I took him shopping and to that swanky new club in Ramat, but nothing I did was ever good enough. “I’m bored,” he would say, “can’t we go to the library.” After three months of him whining, I decided I needed reinforcements, one at least.

      “Solly,” I said, “what’s gonna happen to the estate if something happens to Josh?”

      “Nothing’s gonna happen to Josh,” says Solly. He gives me one of his suspicious looks. “Do you know something I don’t?”

      “No,” I said, “but who knows what might happen. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to have a spare?”

      “A spare what?” he says.

      “A spare son,” I said. I fluttered my eyelashes and acted kind of coy to get him in the mood. He didn’t need much prompting. Nine months later Zach was born.

      I have to admit I wasn’t too sure about him at first. When he wasn’t crying, he was puking and when he wasn’t puking it was all coming out the other end. Thank the Lord for slaves, especially those good with babies. However, I got to admit that once he was potty trained I began to take a shine to him. He was a real boy, not like that goody two shoes of a brother. Okay, so he got into trouble from time to time, but that’s what real boys do. It was just high spirits. You know the kind of thing, bunking off school, breaking windows and underage drinking. Even when he burnt down the kitchen I couldn’t stay angry with him for long, and when others were, I would give him a hug and take him to a burlesque show or a burger bar. Happy days! So much I could tell you, but if I did, this letter would probably end up longer than your book. Let me fast forward to the events recorded in your parable.

      We were doing good. Solly had bought up four more vineyards and was diversifying into real estate. Josh was a local councillor and protecting our interests on all the important committees. Zach was two years out of high school and racing Arab stallions in Alexandria. Well, he was never going to be a farmer. I knew that, so did Solly. What we didn’t realize, was that once he began winning major races, the publicity he generated for the business was better than a front page ad in the Jewish Chronicle. The business flourished as never before. All might have continued well, had not Zach returned home unexpectedly one day, with a proposition that promised to quadruple the family fortune.

      Zach was the leading jockey, ten points clear of the field, but to be the champion he needed to win a race-off with the second best horse, Cairo Fury. Everyone thought that Zach was bound to win, including the bookmakers. The odds on Cairo Fury had started at 4-1 against, but widened to 7-1, to encourage the few idiots prepared to throw away their money on a no-hoper. Zach’s proposition was a simple one: bet all the money we can raise on Cairo Fury, and he would ensure that his horse, Ginberg’s Choice, came home in second place.

      “What can go wrong?” he said.

      Solly must have agreed, for he mortgaged half the estate and laid off the proceeds with forty different bookmakers, in seven provinces.

      Come the day of the race, both horses made a sluggish start and raced side by side towards the first corner. Zach let Ginberg’s Choice drift towards the outside of the track, where it had further to run, allowing Cairo Fury the advantage of the inside lane. Normally, this would have been enough to secure a ten-yard advantage for the other horse, but Cairo Fury seemed curiously unable to seize the opportunity. In fact, the longer the race went on, the slower Cairo Fury got. By the third and final lap it had slowed down to little more than a canter, and Ginberg’s Choice was over half a lap ahead. Zach pulled hard on the reins but could do nothing to reduce the gap. With only fifty yards to go, he attempted to bring down his mount by kicking it in the breadbasket. The horse stumbled, but like the champion thoroughbred it was, staggered across the finishing line. There was an Inquiry, of course, and Zach spent seven days in a police lock-up. When nothing could be proved, he was let out and the race result allowed to stand.

      Several years later, the full story emerged. A syndicate of corn merchants had bet on Ginberg’s Choice to win the race by over ten lengths. To swing things their way, they bribed the rival stable to slip Cairo Fury a sedative. Unfortunately, the hapless doper overdid the dope and the poor nag nearly fell asleep on the final bend.

      Zach was banned for life from racing and after an unsuccessful attempt to resurrect his career under a false name, came back home to face the music. It wasn’t pleasant, I can tell you. Solly had quite a temper and Zach’s head made several large dents in the living room wall, but eventually, it all calmed down. After a year or two, they even started talking again. Of course, I couldn’t stay mad at Zach for long, and even when he was banished to the pigsty I used to take him his favourite food. Don’t believe all that stuff about him eating pods; that never happened, either in Alexandria or here.

      So, six years later, here I am, a widow with two grown-up sons, who don’t have much time for their mother. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t lonely. The days aren’t too bad, but the nights seem endless - just me in a king-size double bed. Plenty of room for manoeuvre, so to speak, and no one to manoeuvre with. Let me know when you’re next in the locality; we’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Until then, good luck with the book.

Yours affectionately,

Marty xxx

Copyright Richard Banks