When Yonatan asked Rimona if she was busy, she wanted to know why he asked. Did he want to explain something to her on the chessboard perhaps? Although they never played chess with each other, she was always willing to sit with him for half an hour or so, the pieces arranged before them on the board, while he explained various strategies: the Nimzowitsch Opening, the King’s Indian Defense, the flanking versus the direct attack, the correct way to play the Queen’s Gambit, the sacrifice of this or that piece for the sake of a tactical advantage. Rimona found it pleasant to listen to such things. If he cared to set up the pieces, she added, she would make coffee, fetch her embroidery, and be with him in a minute.

Although Yonatan didn’t reply, Rimona went to make the coffee. Like a soldier caught in a crossfire, he spun wildly around, stepped away from the heater, and crossed over to the bookcase, where he stood with his back to the room. His eyes finally fell on an old photograph of Rimona that she had framed and placed among the books, a black-and-white snapshot of the two of them taken on a hike in the Judean Desert. He was astounded to discover that they were not alone. Behind her, in the lower right-hand corner, appeared a strange, hairy, uncouth leg in short pants and army boots. Now was the time to make his move, to say or do that crucial thing. Doing his best to steady himself, he finally managed to say, angrily, “My cigarettes. Did you by any chance see my cigarettes?”

Rimona came into the room carrying a tray with two mugs of coffee, some pastry, and a small blue Bokhara creamer.

“Why don’t you sit down? You can pour the milk in our coffee while I get a fresh pack from the drawer. There’s no need to be upset.”

“Forget it!” snapped Yonatan. And then, bitingly, “Who the hell asked for a fresh pack? My cigarettes are over there. Look, right under your nose! On the radio. What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything. You were talking, Yoni.”

“I thought you did. Maybe you started to and changed your mind. Or maybe you just meant to. Here, I’ll pour’a da milk. That’s how Bolognesi says it, ‘pour’a.’ I always feel I’m interrupting you, even when you’re silent.”

“How strange,” said Rimona, though there was not the slightest touch of wonder in her voice.

“And maybe you’ll be good enough to stop saying ‘how strange’ all the time. Everything seems ‘strange’ to you. There’s nothing ‘strange’ about it. Why don’t you sit down instead of wandering all over the room? Sit down!”