“Well, what do you say?” asked Yonatan indifferently, noting at the same time, much to his surprise, a glow of affection on the newcomer’s face. For whom or what that affection was meant, however, he had not the slightest inkling.

“I have a big favor to ask of you,” Azariah sang out.

“Yes?”

“If it’s not too much trouble, could you please try starting it up? I want to listen to it. And, of course, to look too. Then we’ll see what conclusions we can come to.”

Yonatan’s reservations, which had been growing steadily, now turned to outright distrust. Nevertheless, he climbed into the driver’s seat and switched on the ignition. It took four or five tries before the staccato retching of the starter yielded to the hoarse, steady, ear-splitting roar of the engine. As though repressing some unconscionable desire, the ponderous engine began to shake and shudder.

Meticulously, taking care not to dirty his clean clothes, Azariah stepped down from the tread and backed away from the engine. Like an artist who retreats to the opposite end of his studio to get a better view of his canvas, he chose to stand at the maximum distance, in the far corner of the shed, beside the oil and fuel drums, flanked by some filthy straw brooms and a pile of old, used springs. Shutting his eyes in a gesture of supreme concentration, he listened to the raucous growl of the engine as if it were a madrigal sung by a distant choir, among whose myriad voices it was his job to pick out the only one that was flat.

As absurd as this performance seemed to Yonatan, watching from his seat on the crate, it was also somehow touching. Was it because the young stranger was so very strange?

A sharp, high whistle rose above the din. Like a public speaker suffering from throat strain, the tractor broke into a series of hoarse coughs. These were progressively stifled until brief stretches of silence could be heard. Finally, after five or six sharp backfires, the engine fell silent. From outside the shed, shrill, bitter, and piercing, came the caws of birds screaming in the wind. Azariah Gitlin opened his eyes.

“That’s it?” he asked with a smile.

“That’s it,” said Yonatan. “It’s the same every time.”

“Did you ever try putting it into gear as soon as it starts?”

“What do you think?” said Yonatan.

“And what happened?”

“What do you think?”

“Listen,” concluded Azariah. “It’s all very strange.”

“You’re telling me.” Yonatan said dryly. He no longer had the slightest doubt that the newcomer was not just another queer fish but an out-and-out imposter.

“What I’m telling you,” said Azariah Gitlin gently, “is that curiosity may have killed the cat, but it’s haste that killed the bear.”

Yonatan did not reply.