“He didn’t know. From far away. He said he had to go because it was hard for him here.”

“You’ll have to excuse me, ma’am, for this next question. Did the two of you ever have any problems, any family quarrels?”

Rimona smiled. “He just went away. Everyone would like to go away. He went where he wanted to go. Azariah wanted to come, and so he came. And he stayed. We can wait. We won’t be sad. And don’t you be sad either.”

“But what was the stated purpose of his departure?”

“He said: ‘I’m going to my own place.’ ”

“His own place?”

“I think there might be such a place.”

“You think there might be what?”

“A place that’s his own.”

“To be sure. But where do you think this place is?”

“Wherever is right for him. There is a right place for you too. And for Srulik. You take a spear and go out and kill an antelope.”

And so it went until the captain finally threw a sideways glance at the sergeant, thanked Rimona and me, extended yet more sympathy, and promised that everything would turn out all right since he knew from experience that most problems of this nature were settled in a matter of days. Rimona remained seated. In the awkward silence that followed, she suggested that she bring in her embroidery and some refreshments. I had no choice but to tell her that I wished to be left alone with the police. Once she’d left, the captain asked cautiously, “What’s her problem? She must still be in shock, eh?”

I tried to explain, delicately sketching a brief portrait, but evidently without success, because the sergeant put a finger to his forehead, looked at me for confirmation, and joked, “I’d have run away from someone like that myself.”

“And I most certainly would not have,” I said, amazed at the sternness of my voice. It wiped the asinine smirk off his face immediately.

“Well, we aren’t much the wiser,” said the captain. “The most important thing now is to get some good photographs.”

It soon turned out, however, that there were no photographs of Yonatan. Except for a few childhood snapshots and one useless picture of him standing by a jeep with Rimona on their honeymoon, an Arab kaffiyeh around his head, and another, blurry shot from an old issue of the army magazine.

After the police departed, the telephone rang. It was Chupka, Yonatan’s commanding officer.

“Is that Srulik? Here’s the latest from this end. We already have a few of our men out in the field. Our S.I.O. has been in your area for the past two days with some trackers. And we’ve got a stoolie on the other side of the border, right opposite you. We’ll be talking to him tonight.” (What was an S.I.O.? A stoolie? I was embarrassed to ask.)