After she was seated before him, his eyes came to rest on the cleavage of her blouse and he thought of the rest of her—of her twelve-year-old’s breasts, of the cold, dainty lines of the torso hidden beneath her clothes, of her navel like a shut sleeping eye, of her sex like some pious, genderless illustration in a facts-of-life manual for teenagers. It won’t do her any good, Yonatan thought, nothing will any more, not her lovely red sweater, not her long blond hair, not even her bashful smile. The smile of a sweet little girl who’s been naughty and knows that she’ll be forgiven because everyone loves her and everything will be all right. Only this time she won’t be forgiven and nothing will be all right. This time it’s hopeless and everything is all wrong. Just look at her, that skin sagging on her neck, behind her tiny ears, underneath her adorable chin, all those places where she’s drying out and cracking like weathered paint or an old shoe. It’s the beginning of her old age and there’s not a thing that she can do about it. Nothing can save her. The magic of Zanzibar is lost. Gone forever. The End. And I don’t feel in the least bit sorry for her because no one in the world feels sorry for me. The only thing I feel sorry about is all the time that’s been wasted.

“Did you forget?” asked Rimona, with a smile.

“Forget what?”

“I’m still waiting.”

“Waiting?” said Yonatan in amazement. He felt a moment’s panic. What could she mean? Waiting for what? Did she already know? But she couldn’t possibly.

“I don’t get it,” he added. “Waiting for what?”

“For you to set up the chessboard, Yoni. And I’ll turn on the radio. There’s a Bach fugue on. I’ve already brought in my embroidery, and you told me not to bother about getting the cigarettes because you would, but you forgot. Don’t get up. I’ll do it for you.”

Some minutes later they sat facing each other in the twin armchairs. Music came over the radio. Rimona hugged the coffee mug with her palms to absorb the warmth. For the last time Yonatan reviewed in his mind the words he had decided to use.

“I’m ready if you are,” said Rimona.

Once, when he was on patrol and crossing the border at night into Jordan near the village of Tarkumiyya, Yonatan suddenly found himself scared to death for no good reason. The night seemed full of eyes. Among the rocks the darkness crackled with a wicked laughter. They’re waiting for us. In some unaccountable way they know we’re coming down this wadi tonight, and they’re lying in ambush, as invisible as we are conspicuous, laughing to themselves because the trap is sprung.