“Me? No way. I want to stay safely put. Without anyone after my scalp. Even if that means making concessions to Nasser. We can afford some. What I want is to spend my life with good friends. With Jews. With my own brothers. And to play music that will make people feel good and to write down my thoughts so that they can be of some use or comfort to someone. To shape up. So that I’ll finally be accepted and not just put up with as some little fink. Or as some unavoidable nuisance, because as long as I’m that, I’m still no good. If life on the kibbutz doesn’t change me for the better, the best thing I could do would be go live as a hermit in the mountains, where I’d grub for mushrooms and roots and drink stream water or melted snow. And though I’m afraid to ask, she always says, ‘Zaro, stay, you’re no bother to me or Yoni at all.’ ”

“That’s true. As far as I’m concerned, anyway. As a matter of fact, I get a kick out of seeing my dear parents having conniptions over you. And the whole kibbutz too. Anat, for instance, grabbed hold of me the other day and wanted to know in her sugary voice if I wasn’t just a little bit jealous. ‘Thank you, it’s my pleasure,’ I said to her. She’s a little brain-damaged herself, you know. As far as I’m concerned, you can stay here until moss grows on you. You’re not in my way one bit.”

“Thank you. Yoni? Do you think I could ask you a personal question, as they say? Just one. You don’t even have to answer it. I guess I’d better keep my mouth shut, though. The more I open it, the more hot water I get into.”

“Why don’t you cut out the blah-blah and just ask?”

“Yoni. Tell me. Are you … my friend? A little bit?”