Fima, who was certain he was not doing the right thing but was damned if he could think what he ought to be doing or saying, opened a window to let in some cool air. Then it struck him that the child might be nursing the flu, so he hurriedly closed it. He poured himself a glass of mineral water in the kitchen and came back to the living room to drink it, perhaps in the hope that Dimi would follow his example and drink something too.

“Sure you’re not thirsty?”

Dimi raised his pale face slightly and looked at Fima with consternation, as one looks at a grownup who is getting into difficulties but who cannot be helped. Fima attempted another line:

“Well, let’s play cards then. Or how about a game of Monopoly? Or would you like to watch the news with me? Just show me how to switch on this TV of yours.”

“You press the button. The top one,” Dimi said. And he added:

“You don’t offer spirits to a child.”

Fima said:

“Course you don’t. I was just trying to make you laugh. Tell me what you feel like doing. Shall I do an impersonation of Shamir and Peres?”

“Nothing. I’ve told you three times already.”

In vain Fima suggested an adventure story, a computer game, jokes, a pillow fight, a game of dominoes. Something was weighing on the child, and though Fima quizzed him about school, about the afternoon at the neighbor’s, tiredness, tummy aches, the U.S. space program, all he could get out of him was “Stop it.” Could it be the beginning of tonsillitis? Pneumonia? Meningitis? Fima squeezed himself into the armchair, forcing the skinny Challenger to huddle even farther into his corner. He put an arm around the limp shoulders, and insisted:

“Tell me what’s happened.”

“Nothing,” said Dimi.

“Where does it hurt?”

“Doesn’t.”

“Shall we be a little wild together? Or would you like to go to sleep? Your mother said to give you half a Valium. Do you want a story?”

“You already asked.”

Fima was uneasy. Something nasty, something serious and possibly even dangerous was happening in front of his eyes and he could not think what to do. What would Teddy do now if he were here? He ran his fingers through the albino hair and muttered:

“But you’re obviously not well. Where do they keep that Valium? Tell me.”

Dimi recoiled from the caress and slipped away like a cat whose rest is disturbed. He tottered to the other armchair, and buried himself under a heap of cushions so that only his head and shoes were visible. His eyes blinked behind his thick lenses.

Fima, whose anxiety had turned into panic mixed with mounting anger, said:

“I’m going to call a doctor. But first we’ll take your temperature. Where do they keep the thermometer?”