The taxi stopped at the light at the Mount Herzl junction. The driver said:

“It’s freezing out there. My heater’s broken. The damn traffic lights aren’t working. This whole country’s fucked up.”

Fima said:

“Why exaggerate? There may be twenty-five countries in the world that are more decent than ours, but on the other hand there are more than a hundred where you’d be shot for talking like that.”

The driver said:

“The goyim can go burn, the lot of ’em. They’re all rotten. They hate us.”

Strange lights flickered on the wet road. Wisps of mist drifted around the darkened buildings. Where the nearest wisps caught the orange glare of the streetlights at the junction, there was a kind of ghostly glow. Fima thought: This must be what the mystical writings call “the Radiance that is not of this world.” The ancient Aramaic expression suddenly left him feeling dizzy. As if the words themselves came from over there, from other worlds. Not a car went past. There was not a lighted window to be seen. The desolate asphalt, the glare of the streetlights, the shadowy pines that stood shrouded in rain as though all gates had been locked forever, aroused a dread in Fima. As if his own life were flickering out, there in the icy mist. As if someone was expiring nearby, behind some damp wall.

The driver said:

“What a rotten fucking night. And these damn lights won’t change.”

Fima reassured him:

“What’s the hurry? So we’ll wait here another minute or two. Don’t worry: I’m paying.”