“You wanted to go, didn’t you? Come on, then. We’ll go harness Burlak and hit the road. Go to Petra. What do I care? Every man’s his own master. When it comes to his own life, every idiot is as free as a king. Go right ahead. Die and enjoy it. Just take that, nu, that jerrycan over there, so we can fill it up with cold water for you. It holds a lot more than that puny flask of yours. Here, we’ll tie it nice and neat to your back to make sure you don’t die thirsty. What do they call you, son? By now they were walking out the door.

“I am … Azariah.”

“Liar!”

“Sasha?”

“Go on. Lie all you want.”

“You won’t tell on me, will you?”

“You poor nincompoop! Shame on you! Bah! To die is a human prerogative! It’s in the constitution! It’s in the bill of rights! It’s written in stone. Who am I, Stalin? Ay, mama. ‘You promith not to tell on me? Naughty-naughty!’ ” The last in a high-pitched voice, mimicking that of a whining child. “Although if I were your father I’d beat the daylights out of you. Your behind would be as red and purple as a baboon’s. Now allow me to introduce you. This beautiful devil here is Burlak. A sight for sore eyes, no?”

It was a broken-down jalopy of a jeep, one headlight discolored like a blackened eye and the other shattered. The front windshield was missing from a frame gone to rust. A woolen army blanket had been spread over the filthy stuffing that spilled from the tattered seats. In the back were some jerrycans of water and gasoline, a few red-and-white-striped surveyor’s poles, a theodolite, some greasy ropes, a few rags, a box of K-rations, several samples of quartz and bitumen, and the torn remains of old newspapers. Matzos on the floorboards crunched beneath Yonatan’s feet.

“My dearly beloved Burlak.” The old man laughed, showing his fine white teeth. “Churchill himself once rode him into Venice, but now he’s all ours.”

The engine barked, yelped, hemmed and hawed, until suddenly the jeep took off, pitching Yonatan forward. The old man put it through a few twists and turns and ran over an empty oil can before reaching the main road. He drove with a Cossack spirit, pumping the gas pedal on curves and occasionally kicking the brakes, though rarely bothering with the clutch. Under his breath he hummed a broad Russian melody.