“You said your name was Azariah? What kind of a name is that? Are you a new immigrant or something? Do you have parents? No? Then who brought you up? Look out, there’s a revolting puddle over there. This way. That’s right.

“And apart from everything else, you’re also a young poet? No? A philosophist? Never mind. The only thing that matters is whether you’re an honest man. I don’t give a hoot for the rest. Here, bless their souls, we have all types. Once, when I was a girl, I read somewhere in Dostoyevsky that if a man wants to stay really honest, he’d better die before he turns forty. From forty on they’re all scoundrels. On the other hand, they say that Dostoyevsky was a scoundrel himself, a drunken swine and a petty egotist.

“You can wash your hands over here. There’s no hot water. The faucet isn’t working. As usual. Here are the trays and over there the dishes and silverware and cups. Would you like an egg? Yes, I’m glad you think so, but that’s not what I asked. I asked if you wanted a hard-boiled or a soft-boiled egg. Now sit yourself here and eat, and don’t let anyone make you self-conscious. No one here is any better than you are. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Don’t wait for me. Just start eating.

“By the way, whatever Yolek told you is fine and dandy, but personally I’d advise you not to get too excited about it. Yolek has lots of ideas at night, but he always makes his decisions in the morning. Are you absolutely sure you don’t have a fever? I’ve never believed in aspirin, but I’ll bring you one and you can do what you want with it. Take your time eating. No need to rush. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

She remembered the sobs and pleas of the young man who had loved her when she was young. On the threshing floor on summer nights the kibbutzniks got together to sing beneath the stars while the jackals wailed in the distance. “Her eyes outshone the morning star,” they sang, “and her heart raged like a desert wind.” In the darkness the young man who loved her put her hand to his cheek to let her know it was wet with his tears. I shouldn’t have run down Dostoyevsky in front of a young man I don’t even know.

Yolek didn’t resettle himself in his chair until he heard the steps outside grow faint. He could feel the pain creeping up his back and along his shoulders and neck like a patrol sent out in advance of a full-scale attack.