AND SINCE THE TAXI DRIVER HAD USED THE EXPRESSION “KILL THEM when they’re young,” Fima remembered the mysterious case of the death of Trotsky. Going to the kitchen for a glass of water before retiring to bed, he peered into the trash can under the sink to see if there were any more corpses. Then, noticing the sparkling aluminum of the new Korean kettle, he decided to make some tea. While the water was boiling, he bolted down two or three thick slices of black bread and jam. And immediately had to swallow a heartburn tablet. Standing in front of the open fridge, he brooded on Annette’s misfortune. He felt that he could identify with the cruel injustice she had suffered; he could share her humiliation and despair. But at the same time and without contradiction he could understand the husband, the doctor, the dependable, hard-working man who had held back for decades, whistling occasionally between his front teeth, tapping gently on inanimate objects, until he felt the fear of approaching old age and realized that this was his last chance to stop dancing to his wife’s tiresome tune and start living his own life. Just now he’s sleeping in his young girlfriend’s arms in some Italian hotel, his knee between her knees, a man rejuvenated; but some time soon he will make the discovery that she too wears a sanitary napkin inside her underpants, uses a scented deodorant to cover the smell of her sweat and other secretions, anoints herself with greasy creams in front of her mirror, and perhaps even goes to sleep beside him with curlers in her hair, just like his wife. And hangs her underwear to dry on the shower-curtain rod so that it drips on his head. And affects migraines and irritating mannerisms just at the moment his desire begins to stir.