“Quit clowning,” said Dimi. “Why don’t you watch the news?”

As though he had been hit in the face, Fima sprang to his feet in a muddled frenzy and tried to switch on the television, but he pushed the wrong button. Instantly, realizing that he was being made a fool of, he regretted coddling the child and shouted at him:

“I’ll give you sixty seconds to tell me what’s wrong, and if you don’t, I’m going to leave you here by yourself.”

“Go then,” said Dimi.

“Very well then,” Fima snapped, attempting to imitate Ted’s strictness and even his accent. “I’m going. Okay. But before I go, you’ve got exactly four minutes on the clock to get ready and into bed. And no fuss. Teeth, glass of milk, pajamas, Valium, the lot. And no more ridiculous scenes.”

“You’re the one who’s making ridiculous scenes,” said Dimi.

Fima walked out of the room and made his way to Ted’s study. He had no intention of leaving the sick child alone. On the other hand, he had no idea how to retract his ultimatum, so he sat down on Teddy’s padded chair in front of the computer, without turning the light on, and urged himself to think rationally. There were only two possibilities: either the child was developing some illness and needed immediate treatment, or he was tormenting him on purpose, and he, Fima, was behaving like a clown. Suddenly he felt full of pity for the pale, tortured Challenger. And for himself too: “They hadn’t even bothered to leave a phone number. They’re probably having a night out in Tel Aviv, living it up in some exotic restaurant or nightclub, without so much as a thought for us. What if something terrible is happening? How can I get hold of them? What if he’s swallowed something? Caught a lethal virus? Appendicitis? Polio? Or perhaps it’s his parents who are in trouble? A car crash on the way back to Jerusalem? Or a terrorist attack?”

Fima made up his mind to ask the downstairs neighbor. On second thought he did not know what he could say to her, and was afraid of again making a fool of himself.

So he walked back sheepishly to the living room and wheedled:

“Are you angry with me, Dimi? Why are you doing this to me?”

A ghost of a tired old man’s smile flitted across the child’s mouth. In a factual tone he remarked:

“You’re bugging me.”

“In that case,” Fima said, fighting back a fresh wave of fury, a mighty urge to give this devious, impertinent creature a small slap across the face, “you can be bored all by yourself. Good night. I’ll forget you.”