Yolek roughly pushed away her hand, sloshing water. He pulled out a cigarette from the pocket of his robe, fingered it, tapped it on the arm of his chair, tapped the other end, and studied it at some length in his usual fashion. Finally, his broad nostrils twitching, he decided not to light it and turned to me.

“Srulik, perhaps I can enlist your good services. Do you think your charms might prevail on this lady to kindly leave us alone for a while?”

“It will be my pleasure to talk to you in private afterwards, Mrs. Lifshitz,” Mr. Seewald offered amiably.

Hava looked at me. “Shall I, Srulik?” Her tone was downright docile.

“I think you should. But stay in the next room,” I said.

“Ty zboju!” she snarled at Yolek and slammed the door so hard the glasses tinkled on the table.

From his pocket, the visitor produced a long white envelope and a carefully folded piece of paper.

“This is the power of attorney telexed to me by Mr. Trotsky. In the envelope is an open ticket I was instructed to purchase.”

“An open ticket? Who for?”

“For the lady. Tel Aviv-New York-Miami. Round trip, of course. Tomorrow she’ll have her passport and visa. Mr. Trotsky’s name is a great simplifier of procedures in any number of countries.”

Yolek removed his glasses from his pocket, settled them on the slope of his profligate nose, gave Mr. Seewald a crafty sideways glance, and said, without looking at the papers that had been put before him, “Na. Mazel tov. And what has the lady done to deserve this great honor?”

“If the young man is truly on his way to America, as Mr. Trotsky sincerely hopes, it would be desirable for Mrs. Lifshitz to be present there as well. Mr. Trotsky wishes any meeting to take place in his private residence.”

“Meeting, mister?”

The visitor unbuckled his leather briefcase and took out a sheet of paper, from which he asked permission to read a few sentences. In this way, he stated, any potential misunderstanding or unnecessary debate might be avoided.

I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible by turning my head to the window and staring out of it. A blue sky. One or two wisps of light cloud. A leafless branch. A butterfly. Spring. Where was Yonatan at this moment? What was he thinking of? I would have given almost anything to shut out that smug, nasal voice as it read from the sheet of paper: