All the nights spent in bed alongside this thickening man, the smells of his illnesses, his nicotine breath, his snores in her face, the shadow of his crowded bookshelves made by the bathroom light that must never be turned off at night, his mementos on the shelves above the bed like a huge billboard announcing: I am a national figure. I have been a minister!

You are a national figure, all right, and I, Mr. Minister, have been your dust rag, your old socks beneath your long underwear. I’ve been your underwear too. By all means, Mr. Minister, you should work wonders, you should be a minister again, you should become President even, but I wish to God I’d been killed by those bullets of Bini’s. He couldn’t aim a gun to save his life, but he could play the flute, and he pastured the flock all alone by the edge of the wadi that autumn, standing so straight and so sad on that rock in his black Russian blouse with his black tousled hair, playing the flute in Ukrainian, to the sky, to the hills, until I begged him, Stop because I’ll cry! He stopped because he loved me, that’s why, but I cried anyway. Until that night when I saw him on that sweaty mattress through the chink in the partition, lying naked on his back and holding his tool as he held his flute, diddling it, crying, and the minister snored by my side till I woke him in a whisper and made him look at Bini squirming there before he turned over and came. That’s when Mr. Minister appointed a committee to look into the matter discreetly, to let time heal all wounds, but by then I was pregnant and ever since I’ve been your pet bitch, ty zboju, ty morderco! Quietly you killed me, quietly you killed him, and now quietly you’re killing your son, though I’ll never give you the satisfaction of knowing if he’s really your son or not. It’s just as that fawning music man said, “Let the Guardian of Israel sleep in peace.” Never mind, Hava’ke, never mind, never mind, she crooned to herself, as if to calm a child deep within.

“Hava,” said Yolek, “you won’t believe it, but I think I actually dozed off.”

“Sleep all you want. I think Srulik was looking for you.”

“Eh?”

“Srulik. I said Srulik was here.”

“You’re right,” said Yolek. “Spring is really here.”

“By all means,” snapped Hava. And went off to make him tea.