Have I wronged my son, too, then? Am I really the cause of his suffering? Whatever made him choose a woman like Rimona? Was that his idea of punishing someone? Himself? His mother? Me? So be it, thought Yolek. Each of us will have to bear his own cross. Though if it weren’t for that tragedy I’d be a grandfather now. Every day at three-thirty I’d arrive at the nursery ahead of all the parents to have the boy to myself. I’d take him on my shoulders to the swings. To the fields. To the orchards. To the lawns. To the sheep pen and the chicken run and the cowshed. To the peacock cage by the swimming pool. And shower him with candy, whole bribefuls of it, endless heaps of hush money despite all my principles. And kiss him quite shamelessly in front of everyone, toe by toe on his little feet. And frolic with him on the grass like a boy myself on summer days. And spray him with water from the garden hose and get as good as I give. And make him funny faces as I never did for my own sons. And moo and miaow and bark, all for the price of one little caress. And make up no end of stories about animals, and ghosts and goblins, and trees and stones. And rise at night long after his parents are asleep and sneak like a thief into the nursery to kiss him on his little head.

Far away, across the border, lights twinkled in the mountains. Yolek Lifshitz raised his coat collar, pulled down his cap against the cold, and stood looking at them. For nearly ten minutes he did not budge, entirely drained of the old passions and high principles that had guided him all his life. As though the answer had been obvious from the start, he had suddenly made up his mind. Frosty, hushed, and desolate the night, pinioned against the sky and earth. Yolek waited so until he saw a falling star. And begged for mercy.

10

Tia lay sprawled beneath the couch with only her hairy tail sticking out, now and then thumping the rug. The heavy brown curtains hid the window and the door leading out to the porch. All was at peace. The heater was lit, as was the reading lamp at the head of the couch. The overhead light was off.

“Hey, Azariah. Tell me something. What’s that book you’ve been reading all evening?”

“The letters. In English. It’s a philosophy book.”

“The letters. To whom?”

“All kinds of people. Letters that Spinoza wrote.”

“Okay. Get back to it. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“You’re not disturbing me, Yoni. Not at all. I thought you’d dozed off.”