The steadily growing crowd surged around it, swearing at the driver or kicking the truck’s tires, clucking its collective tongue, calling out its brainstorms, inspirations, ingeniously improvised solutions. At last, as a long line of backed-up traffic began rending the air with deafening honks, one resolute bystander stepped out of the throng to take the bull by the horns. This hero, who looked like a cowboy and was none other than the rude-limbed, rough-voiced, sun-scorched officer who had been sitting in the cafe with his baby-faced friend, pulled himself up the side of the truck by the door handle and, shouldering the driver aside, forced his way into the cab. Once there, he calmly stuck his neck out the window to survey the battleground below. He looks just like a water buffalo, thought Yonatan, and laughed quietly to himself. He didn’t give a hoot about any of it.

What time could it be? His watch had stopped running, though, judging by the light, it must be close to noon. A large, good-looking woman, brown from the sun, had just stepped into the cafe and sat down by herself at a small corner table. Her fingers festooned with many rings, she lit herself a cigarette. The Rumanian counterman came running and, with a great show of courtesy, placed before her a glass of tea, a spoon, a sugar bowl, and a slice of lemon on a dish. “Mr. Gotthilf,” laughed the woman in a low, throaty voice, “Mr. Gotthilf, what’s wrong with you? You look like a ghost. I hope to God you’re not getting sick.”

“Only of life,” joked the counterman. “That’s the one sickness we’re all one-hundred-percent sure to die of. Would you like something to eat, Jacqueline?”

The woman shook her head. She had ceased concentrating on Mr. Gotthilf because she had become aware of Yonatan’s glances and decided to return them with a mocking, sideways stare that seemed to say, All right, mister, it’s your turn. Let’s see what you can do.

And all the while customers kept coming and going, all suntanned and windburned, all eating and drinking and guzzling away, all talking in loud, rasping voices. A goddamn good place to be by yourself. And a goddamn good thing that your watch has stopped and that you feel a little sleepy too. Can it be one o’clock? Two? Two-thirty? What difference does it make? From now on, all hours are going to be the same.