How come I never cried over her? How come, whenever Rimona wanted to talk about her, I told her to cut it out? She was my child. How could I have forgotten that Rimona was pregnant two years before Efrat? Come on, I yelled at her, it’s too soon for us to have children. The two of us are fine by ourselves. It’s not my job to sire a dynasty for my father. I don’t want my parents getting into bed with us. And so one morning she went to Haifa and came back empty. I bought her a record for a present and for five days she did nothing but listen to that record over and over. It was because of that abortion that Efrat was born dead. That’s what the Syrian doctor said when he told us not to try again for a while, because Rimona was lucky to have pulled through. I killed my own two children. And I drove my wife mad. That was how the magic of Chad started.

What was that? A jackal? A fox? Nothing. Just stars and silence.

At this time of night we would have been putting Efrat to bed. Putting her into pajamas. Singing her a lullaby. Telling her stories and making animal sounds. I’m good at that. This is how the fox goes. And this, the hyena. We would have been giving her a warm bottle with some sugar or a little honey. Putting a teddy bear or a toy giraffe into bed with her. Don’t be afraid, Efrat, Papa will lie on the floor beside your crib and hold your hand until you fall asleep. And Mama will cover you.

And then Rimona and I could have sat quietly in the next room, I with my evening paper and she with her embroidery or a book. Maybe she would have sung something. Before Efrat died she used to sing. Zaro and I could have played chess. And drunk coffee together. And Rimona could have ironed Efrat’s blue dress instead of all her magic of Chad. One peep from her and the three of us would have run to change her diaper, to cover her, to give her a fresh bottle.