During the week there was a sense of evolution.  I was subjected to a wide range of tests from a mundane Vitamin B1 deficiency analysis, to random questions by a variety of police officers and forensic specialists.  On the Wednesday I awoke feeling that I knew that my name was George Abrams.  Would the real George Abrams please stand up?  At any rate, it was a start. 

Now came the crunch.  I was soon to be released from the hospital but where was I going to live?  As luck would have it, the lady who dripped, waltzed in on Thursday morning and told me that she had arranged an apartment for me and had set up a bank account.  That was jolly but I would need some ID in order to function normally.

I took a moment to question why she was doing this.  I could not for the life of me figure out what she had to gain.  The one good thing that came from her return was the assurance I felt that I had not just dreamed the original dripping scenario but had actually experienced it in real time.

I told her I would get back to her and she left me her phone number.

No sooner had she left than Belinda came in with a proposal of her own.

"We have a rambling big house and a huge garden.  My mother lives with us so if you are questioning possible improprieties you can forget about them.  Besides Rachel insists on it."

"You let a six-year old dictate to you? I asked and then immediately added,  "Even an adorable six-year-old!" 

"Not really but I have some news for you."

"I'm listening."

"I have reason to believe that you were a member of the CIA."

I snorted.  "Really!  That's a bit rich."

"That's why your name never came up on any of the data bank searches."

It was so quiet in the room the proverbial pin could have dropped but so lost were both of us in thought that we might have heard it but wouldn't have been in any state to heed it.

"Let's assume that your premise is valid.  Do you think for one minute that the CIA is going to admit that they had lost a member in the Sudan and not done anything about it?"

I began to sob.  Grown men don't cry but they are allowed to sob.

"I've got it," she said.  "Oh by jove, I think I've got it."

"Mrs. Dripping with Diamonds is a CIA operative."

"And she's going to bring me in from the cold?" I asked wiping my tears away with sleeve.  Women hate it when guys do that.

Belinda rung out a face cloth and handed it to me.  It was quite warm and it felt wonderful on my face.

"How are we going to get out of this?"

"I'm so glad to hear you say we," Belinda responded.  "I know how we are going to do it."

"Yeah, right."

"The Jewish community has some very well connected people in it," she said.

"What if I'm a spy for the other side and you end up harbouring me?"

"Balderdash.  The man I love could hardly be a spy for the enemy now could he?"

I could have been blown over with a feather. 

It's one thing losing your memory.  It's another thing dealing with bureaucracy, which seems to be in place in order to advise you that it can't be done.  After six months of wrangling, it was someone in the Jewish hierarchy that set things right right after I read a passage from the Torah, in Hebrew of course, a language that I couldn't remember learning but which flowed out of my mouth like honey.

Don't ask me who was our saviour for I do not know and have no wish to.  It was finalized during the week leading up to our wedding, which took place two weeks after Rosh Hashanah.  Rachel was a flower girl.

Mazel Tov!

Shalom!

the end