The two of them went to have a brotherly smoke at the table nearest the counter. The Rumanian dropped his voice to a whisper. Yonatan, who had been folding a paper napkin into the shape of a little canoe, now shot it across the table with his finger, scoring a direct hit on a saltshaker. Praise God, he murmured to himself. We are doing okay.

A noisy busload of American Jewish tourists burst into the cafe. Though most of them were elderly, they carried on like a group of schoolchildren whose teacher has stepped out of the room. On their heads, apparently freshly taken out of storage, were bell-shaped Israeli hats of blue cotton. Front and back, they bore the inscription, in Hebrew and English, TENTH ANNIVERSARY OF ISRAEL, HAVEN OF THE JEWISH PEOPLE.

In urgent need of cold drinks or the bathroom, they either fell upon the counter to banter with the Rumanian in Yiddish or threaded their way between the tables, struggling to squeeze by the ragged soldiers, the miners, the farmers in work clothes, the truck drivers, all engaged in the tribal pastime of feasting on grilled lamb, roasted drumsticks, french fries in pita bread, and plates of sesame dip washed down with an American cola or local soft drink. Now and then someone banged a saltshaker on a tabletop to free its clogged openings. Sometimes a roar of savage laughter would erupt from one of the corners.

Yonatan’s eyes narrowed like gunslits. The counterman’s Bedouin friend, he noticed, was wearing sandals made of rubber tires tied with rope. From his leather belt hung a curved dagger in an ornamental silver sheath. The skin of his face was pulled tightly back over his prominent cheekbones as if sculpted of flint. His dark hands, one of which sported a bright gold ring, were covered with a fine desert powder. His mustache was clipped smartly, but the matted hair on his bare head seemed to have been washed with cheap cooking oil, perhaps even, Yonatan thought, with camel piss. You never knew. Now he was standing with his back to the counter, watching the entrance with beady eyes to see who might pass through next. Watch out for Udi, pal. That’s a friend of mine who wants to make a scarecrow out of you so that you can keep the birds off his garden and be the talk of the kibbutz. And forget about your sorghum.

Yonatan, craving a cigarette, rummaged through his pockets. Finding none, he went to the counter, where he stood scratching himself fiercely as he usually did when at a loss. Nevertheless, he managed not to take his eyes off his belongings for a second. Whatever wasn’t nailed to the floor in a place like this had a way of walking off by itself.