“Let’s start with what this handwriting says about the writer’s present state, and then we’ll go back to his past”
Sandy and Marta Eliav sat facing Dr. Dan Bareli, one of the top ten graphologists in London. On the desk before him lay the scrap of newsprint they’d found in Yonatan’s backpack, the “business card” of one Shalom Eliav. Bareli was examining it closely and taking his time about it.
Sandy was getting fidgety. “Nu, what do you see?” he asked.
Marta ventured a guess. “Is it too small of a sample, so you can’t say anything definitive?”
“I see quite a lot,” Bareli replied. “I’m just trying to sum it all up in the best possible way.”
They had chosen Bareli because of his Israeli origins, thinking that he would be better qualified to analyze the Hebrew script than someone unfamiliar with the language.
“Let’s start with what this handwriting says about the writer’s present state, and then we’ll go back to his past,” said the graphologist. “This is a very complex and cunning personality, a person who isn’t at peace with himself or with others. He lives for the moment, without mapping out a plan for the future.”
Sandy was staring at him with wide eyes.
“The writing shows signs of severe addiction,” Bareli went on.
“Addiction! To what?” Sandy demanded. His throat had gone dry.
“To drugs, it would appear.”
“It couldn’t be,” Sandy murmured faintly.
Bareli continued impassively, adding a few more remarks about criminal tendencies, and with every blow he unknowingly struck, Sandy’s heart sank deeper.
“A picture of a very difficult childhood emerges from this handwriting. It indicates that the child was cut off from his parents at an early age — emotionally if not physically.”
“But he didn’t have a difficult childhood at all!” Sandy protested. “We grew up together, in a very good home with fine parents. It was just Shalom and me, and we both loved our parents a lot, although it’s true that he didn’t always get along well with our father.”
“I hear you,” said Bareli. “But you’re telling me one story, and the handwriting tells another.”
Marta, who’d been watching the interchange closely, spoke up now. “Sandy, we don’t know that this is Shalom’s handwriting. Maybe someone else wrote it.”
“Next you’ll be saying that this Shalom Eliav isn’t my brother, it’s some poor beggar in Jerusalem with the same name, who also looks just like him and poses for pictures in charity brochures.”
“That could very well be,” said Marta. “Or maybe it is him, but some friend or acquaintance of his wrote it as a joke.”
“So this Shalom is your brother, then,” said Bareli.
“Yes, my twin brother.”
“An identical twin?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you have some other sample of his writing, for comparison?”
“Nothing on me at the moment. At home I have a letter he wrote about ten years ago, sent from Los Angeles. But it’s in English.”
“Perhaps you could have someone bring it here? It could help us confirm, or rule out, that this is your brother’s handwriting,” the graphologist said, gesturing toward the scrap of paper on his desk.
