It may not be possible for me to actually purchase the figure – my means may not allow it – but I should be grateful if you could let me know the reserve figure when it is set.
I hope to travel to England to be present at the auction. If the golem should be sold by a private arrangement before the date, I would be very grateful if you would let me know.
Kind regards,
David Bensimon.
‘I think Ashby’s are right that David is the descendant of the man who wrote to Ashby’s in the 1940s about finding the figure,’ said Nell, as Michael laid down the printouts. ‘Bensimon is probably a fairly common Jewish name, but it’s a bit of a coincidence if there were two people of that name both trying to trace the golem in the same year.’
‘Maurice Bensimon wrote to Ashby’s and all the other auction houses, didn’t he?’ said Michael, frowning in an effort of memory.
‘Yes, and there was some shady character doing the same thing around the same time,’ said Nell. ‘Ashby’s reported that one to the police. They seemed to think Bensimon’s enquiry was genuine, though. It’s interesting, isn’t it? Part of the golem figure’s background in a way. Would you like another cup of tea?’
‘I’d better not. I’ve got to be back in College for half-past four. That photographer – Rafe – is going to make a second attempt to photograph Wilberforce for the publishers’ website.’
‘God help him,’ said Nell.
The photo shoot for the website turned into quite a lively session.
Wilberforce regarded the photographer with thoughtful malevolence, before ensconcing himself out of reach on a top bookshelf, where he succeeded in dislodging a set of Ruskins, an early edition of George Borrow’s Romany Rye, Michael’s DVDs of Inspector Morse, and a folder containing notes for a lecture about the metaphysical poets, which had unaccountably found its way on to that particular shelf. The whole lot tumbled to the floor, with Wilberforce watching with pleased triumph.
Rafe helped tidy up most of the debris, agreeing that the broken DVD cases would probably not affect the actual playing of the discs and that the leather covers of the Ruskin volumes could certainly be rebound, after which Wilberforce retired to the top of the window ledge, and had to be tempted down by a dish of his favourite tinned herring. He regarded this with contempt, then tipped up the dish with a paw, sending the contents over Rafe’s light meter and splattering it on to Michael’s lecture notes into the bargain.
‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Michael, grabbing a cloth, while Rafe surveyed the light meter, whose screen was completely obscured by tomato sauce, with dismay. ‘He isn’t usually this disruptive. No, that’s a lie, he’s always this disruptive.’