“F
inally!” Yanky let out a dramatic sigh as he sank into Tzvika’s white leather couch. “Finally I’m back in the only place in the world where I can just be myself.”
“So happy to provide the service,” Tzvika replied, sitting down beside his friend.
“I felt like I was choking in London,” said Yanky. “I mean, we did pretty well as far as fundraising, but I’ve had it up to here with being Moreinu Reb Yankel, youngest son of the eminent mashpia, Hagaon Hatzaddik Reb Reuven Chaim Kleiner shlita. When a guy gets a chance to go to London, he wants to see Big Ben, the Crown Jewels, and Buckingham Palace, like any decent tourist, and—”
“Every decent tourist doesn’t get his ticket paid for by wealthy donors.” Tzvika smiled ruefully. “And being the eminent philanthropist, Harav Hachassid Reb Tzvi Hirsch Lubin, who funded Moreinu Hagaha”tz Reb Yankel’s trip, I must remind you to show some respect for your status. We expect bigger things of you than wistful thoughts of visiting the wax museum.”
