The Case of the Russian Diplomat

“That’s very generous of you, Uncle,” Masuto replied. “But I come merely to talk about oranges.”

“So?” Now he smiled. “You will stay a week perhaps?”

“All my apologies. A half hour at the most. Is the subject so complicated?”

“More than you might imagine. The history of the orange alone could consume hours of pleasant instruction.”

“I recognize the value of such instruction, and I have no desire to be disrespectful, and at another time I shall be honored to listen. For the moment, I seek only to know why the Soviet Union should send five agronomists to Southern California and to Florida to seek instruction in the art of growing oranges. Incidentally, the leader of the group is a Nobel Prize winner, by the name of Ilya Moskvich.”

“The answer is simple.”

“Oh?”

“The Russians do not know how to grow oranges.”

“They have sent spaceships to the moon.”

“Ah, so. Truly. They still do not know how to grow oranges.”

“I find that difficult to believe,” Masuto said respectfully.

“Naturally. You consider the growing of oranges to be a simple matter. You go into the supermarket, you select your fruit, and you buy it. Simple, no? No. In fact, there are only four places in the world where they understand oranges. Actually three. I include Spain, because they are very good at the Seville orange, which goes by the technical name of aurentium. That is the sour orange, which the English are so fond of for their marmalade. But we must also credit the Spanish for rootstock, excellent rootstock, and that is important. Because you see, nephew, all of the finest oranges are budded. This is a process which you might think of as grafting. We select the most excellent strains and bud them onto proper rootstock. But actually the art of growing fine table oranges is confined to three countries-Japan, the United States, and Israel. In Japan they favor the mandarin orange, which they can for export. That, of course, is a generic name. There are many varieties. In Israel, they grow a fine large fruit, which is a variation of sorts on our navel orange, the unique table orange which is distinguished by the small fruit within the fruit. In Israel, as in America, they specialize in the sweet orange, Valencia, navel, pineapple, Washington, Hamlin, juice oranges in Florida, table oranges here in Southern California- those are our favorite varieties, excluding of course the native mandarins-”

Masuto and Beckman exchanged glances hopelessly, and now Masuto seized his opportunity, “Of course, Uncle.”

“Ah, so. A new note of respect?”

“Yes. Oh, yes,” Masuto admitted.

“If I were to hold forth on rootstock alone, we could be here until midnight-for instance, the miracle whereby the rootstock of the sour orange increases the sugar content of the sweet orange that is budded upon it.”

“I am certain.”

“Or the means by which the Japanese raise oranges in a climate hardly suited to them.”

“I look forward to that, but not today. I am interested in the Russians.”

“Ah, so, I forget that you are a policeman. Well, what I said to you is a fact. I have spoken to growers who have been to the Soviet Union, invited there, as a matter of fact. The Russians are desperately eager to grow good oranges in the Crimea. They used to import oranges from Israel, but now they are very angry at each other. Why the Russians do not have a talent for this, I don’t know. I have met few Russians. I know that it is difficult to say anything kind about the Russians, but in one way they are superior to us.”

“And what is that way, Uncle?”

“They treasure their agronomists. They are among their most honored citizens. So if they sent five agronomists here, headed by this Nobel Prize man, then they are very serious about oranges.”

Mrs. Masuto, who had sat quietly, replenishing teacups throughout the recitation, now smiled with pleasure and informed them that they must stay for dinner.

“I am so sorry,” Masuto said. “I am devastated. Accept my most humble apologies. But it would be impossible. We must return to Beverly Hills.”

In the car, driving south, Beckman complained about Masuto’s refusal of the dinner offer. “I’m starved, Masao, and anyway I’m crazy about Japanese food.”

“It might have been roast ham, and if we had not stayed for an hour after the meal, it would have been a breach of courtesy.”

“Well, the old man certainly knows his oranges. Why were we there, Masao?”

“Just a notion.”

“Goddamn, I’d like to have an acre of that land waiting for me when I retire. It’s pure gold. Well, your mother gets two acres, but you’re out in the cold.”

“Oh, not at all. There are two acres for me in his will.”

“Then why didn’t he mention it?”

“It would have been most discourteous and thoughtless. It would have placed me in the position of a greedy nephew who desired his death. No, he couldn’t possibly mention it.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” Beckman admitted.

Masuto drove on in silence for a while, and then he asked, apropos of nothing, “Are you a religious man, Sy?”

“What?”

“I mean, since you’re Jewish, you might belong to a synagogue.”

“That’s another matter entirely. You got kids, they got to have a bar mitzvah. It’s a matter of teaching. Religious? Well, we go on the High Holy Days. I ought to go more often, but you know the way it is.”

“Then you belong to a synagogue?”

“I belong. Why?”

“I’d like to talk to a rabbi. How about the rabbi at your place? Would he talk to me?”

“He’ll talk to anyone. You ever see a rabbi who didn’t like to talk?”

“Where’s the synagogue?”

“On La Cienega, south of Wilshire.”

“Would he be there now, or at home?”

“Let’s see-today’s Thursday, and if I remember that’s the sisterhood night. They meet at eight, so he should be back at the synagogue by seven-thirty. It’s just seven now. What do you want to talk to him about?”

“Jews.”

“Why don’t you talk to me?”

“I thought I’d get an expert opinion.”

“I figured maybe you wanted to be converted. You know, its a thing in Japan now. I was reading how a whole group of Japanese went and settled in Israel. You know, they tell the story about the Jewish tourist. Wherever he went, he’d look up the local synagogue. So he comes to Tokyo and he looks up the local synagogue and goes to the Friday night service. When the service is over, he goes up to the rabbi, tells him he’s a Jew from New York. The rabbi looks at him and says, ‘That’s funny. You don’t look Jewish.’”

He waited. “You’re not laughing,” he said to Masuto.

“I appreciate it.”

“Maybe you didn’t get the point. You see, the rabbi was Japanese, and when he looks at this guy-”

“I got the point.”

“But you’re not laughing.”

“I told you, Sy, I appreciate it.”

“Maybe it’s a question of a Jewish sense of humor-” Beckman began, and Masuto burst out laughing. “Now what’s funny about that?”

It was just a few minutes after seven-thirty when they reached the synagogue. “You know, my wife’s going to be here,” Beckman said, “and the kids are at home raising hell by themselves, and she hasn’t seen me since three o’clock in the morning when the captain woke me up, and she’s going to burn my ass, so let’s get out of here before eight by a side door or something, and anyway I am half asleep, and God almighty if I get woken up tonight, I quit this lousy job.”

They were told that the rabbi was in his study. They walked through the foyer of the synagogue and down a