‘I didn’t think all this was allowed,’ I said, waving my hand at the walls, ‘for the Haredim. Don’t you have laws about painting people?’ I racked my brain to no effect, trying to remember which of the Ten Commandments it violated.

‘We do, and it isn’t. Although, actually, the one that caught your friend’s eye is permissible.’

‘You,’ Baaz asked, incredulously, ‘painted all these?’ Moshe dipped his head in humble agreement. ‘They’re beautiful,’ Baaz continued, wide-eyed in admiration. ‘But why do they call you “the Traitor”?’

‘Well,’ chuckled Moshe, ‘the Haredim call me a “traitor” because I paint pictures of people; the Israelis, because I’m not a Zionist; our militants, because I don’t support the Palestinians; the Defence Forces, because I didn’t enlist; my family, because I smoke too much; my rabbi, well, my rabbi for a lot of reasons.’

Baaz turned back to the picture.

‘I didn’t just mean painting the pictures,’ I said, taking the packet of Marlboros out of my jacket pocket. I shook two filter-tipped sticks clear and offered him a smoke. He thanked me and plucked one out. I did the same. He lit his and handed me the matches. ‘I meant the forgery, too. “Thou shalt not steal”, right?’

Baaz coughed. Moshe inhaled deeply to make sure the tobacco had caught and looked at me carefully. From around one of the piles of pictures the young boy reappeared, craning his neck to get a better look at us.

‘Max,’ Moshe said, exhaling the smoke between us as he spoke. ‘“Max” is a good name. I like the name “Max”.’ He looked over at Baaz. ‘“Baaz” is also good. But “Max”,’ he continued, looking at me again, ‘is a strong name.’ I smiled at him. He smiled back. I kept looking at him, but didn’t speak. ‘You said,’ he resumed, filling the silence between us, ‘that I was highly recommended. That is very kind. May I ask, who it was that recommended me?’

‘A mutual friend,’ I said. He raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips as if to say, So what? I kept smiling. ‘Ezra sent us,’ I continued. ‘Ezra Black.’

‘Ah. So …’ His face settled and he turned towards the boy. ‘Binyomen,’ he said softly, ‘geyn tsu zen mame.’ The boy darted behind a rack of gilt frames. Seconds later his feet clumped up the stairs that rose from the rear right-hand corner of the studio towards his unseen mother. ‘My apprentice,’ he whispered. ‘He’s closer to me than my own shadow.’ Once he was sure the boy was out of earshot, he continued. ‘These,’ he said, looking around, ‘are not forgeries. They are interpretations. But I do not think that you are interested in my paintings, are you, Mr …?’