The old man rose to his full height. His eyes rolled. His face was contorted. The gray curls on his naked chest bristled like porcupine quills. Unwashed, insane, berserk, his wild beard glistening like snow on a mountaintop, a hideous froth on his lips, he bent low over Yonatan, stinking of garlic, alcohol, and sweat, his face close enough to kiss him on the mouth. Then, from the depths, he gave vent to a horrible, bloodcurdling roar: “Khhhhhrrrr!”

Yonatan retreated to the end of the mattress and hid his face in his hands like a child bracing for a blow.

When he finally opened his eyes, the old man was shaking with silent mirth. His blue eyes sparkled mischievously as he poured the last of the gin into the misshapen tin cups.

“Enough of that little exercise,” he said warmly. “Now have a drink with me. Get all that foolishness out of your head. Relax a little, and then, my best beloved, have a good cry. Ay, mamushka, you need to weep, not to die, to weep if it takes you all night. Well, what are you waiting for? Weep! Yobtvuyumat, I said weep!”

“Knock it off,” said Yonatan lifelessly, his head thrust forward crosswise in a movement that resembled one of his father Yolek’s efforts to hear. “Why don’t you just drop it. I don’t know what you want from me. I’m not going to any Petra. I’m not one of that crowd.”

“Bravo! Molodets! Stakhanov! So you’re just looking for Udi, eh? It’s Udi who wants to go to Petra. You just happen to be down here and while away you are spending your nights shtupping Michal. Or was it Rafa’ella? Or little Yvonne? No difference there. As long as you get to the honeypot, bozhe moy, and have a stick to stir it with. Excellent! To live! To fuck and to live! To weep and to live! Death is filthy. Feh! Dirty! And it hurts too! Khhhhhhhrrrr!”

“Thanks. I’ve already got the idea. Thanks for the drink, and all the rest of it. Just let me go now,” said Yonatan with as much firmness as he could muster. “I’ve really got to get going.”

“All right, malchik, let’s go.”

“What?”