Bazil

Bazil, the English Jew, esteemed himself highly as a male model look-alike with his spiky jet black hair, white razor sharp teeth in immaculate form and shapely-pointed nose. Each feature symmetrically aligned and definite cheek-bones gracefully protruding. He turned heads, attracted unsolicited attention and drank it all in aggressively. A techonology profession offered him the sleeek lifestyle he lived and drove in latest, black BMW style. He started on the money ladder quite young and his business father set him in the right direction by means of a good example. The golden star of David dangled around his neck and at times he chose to eat bacon amongst other things. The rules were there to suit him and however he chose to bend and manipulate them.

Bazil visited us on the farm, talked to another blonde acquaintance of mine all night at my 21st and gave me a silver bangle. He drove down from London on week-ends in his parent's Rover. And I attended the liberal event of his youngest sister's coming of age. His Hollywood-babe mother hated the thought of a non-Jewish girl. I wondered what it would be like if she were to be eliminated from the equation. Then she suddenly died of cancer. A quarrelsome wife and mother, they said. I chose to close the door and take my bow after attending the enclosure of the Bat Chayil.