Yesterday was Arbor Day. Yoni’s mother came by, all upset. What’s the matter with you, you haven’t even come to see how Yolek is, he’s had these terrible pains. The doctor gave him two shots. The first was mild but the second knocked him out. She saw Azariah. And that made her even madder. What would people say? He’s ill, I said. Just like Yoni. And if people talk, they talk about you, too. About things that happened before we were born. That tragic love of yours. You’re a little cuckoo, Rimona, she said. I’m sorry, Hava, but it’s so cold and damp in that shack of his, and there’s no one to take care of him there. And the barber is supposed to come after Arbor Day, and whenever he comes he stays in that room next to Bolognesi. And it’s raining, so Yoni asked Azariah to stay because Azariah gave him a little turtle. I swear you’re a little cuckoo, Rimona. And she left and slammed the door. And the turtle is scratching again in his box. What does he want, want, want?

I’ll dust the floor and the bookcase. I’ll make myself some coffee too. They’re both so sound asleep. So weak and good. Without spears or antelopes. And the funniest part is that I’d like to put them both together in the double bed and sleep out here on the couch by myself. Or else be between them at night. Touching them both.

It was an Arbor Day without any planting of trees or festivities. Just the rain coming down all day. And the wind sweeping in from the mountains to bend the cypresses in the garden. Letting out a long wail as if it were thirsty and wanted to come inside.

If she cries at night, I’ll gentle her so that she doesn’t wake them. I’ll take her and lay her on my stomach with her bottle. Somewhere I read that the mother’s heartbeat soothes the baby to sleep. Because it remembers it from the womb, the rhythm of the heart. In Namibia you’re born to the rhythm of tom-toms.

I have a little cat and its name is Efrat. A sleepy little cat and that’s that.