When he turned on the radio, he found that most of the news was over. Some bright spots were expected during the day. Along the coastal plain there was a possibility of scattered showers, whereas in the northern valleys there was still a serious risk of frost. Drivers were warned of the danger of skidding on wet roads and were asked to reduce their speed and avoid braking abruptly or turning too sharply.

What’s the matter with them, Fima grumbled. Why can’t they leave me alone? What do they take me for? A driver? A farmer from the northern valleys? A swimmer on the coastal plain? Why are we asked and warned, when somebody ought to assume the responsibility and say, I ask, I warn. It’s sheer madness: everything is falling apart in this country, and they are worried about a frost. In fact, applying the brakes abruptly plus a very sharp turn might just save us from disaster. But even that is doubtful.

Fima turned off the radio and called Annette Tadmor: he owed her an apology for his behavior. At the very least he should show some interest in her welfare. For all he knew, her husband might have had enough of his Italian operetta and returned sheepishly in the middle of the night, lugging a couple of suitcases, falling to the ground and kissing her feet. Was it possible that she had confessed to him what had happened? Was the husband liable to show up here with a loaded pistol? Out of habit or morning vagueness, Fima dialed Tsvi Kropotkin’s number by mistake. Tsvi chuckled and said that although he was actually in the middle of shaving he had already asked himself what had become of Fima this morning: had he forgotten us? Tsvi’s sarcasm eluded Fima.

“What do you mean, Tsvika? Of course I haven’t forgotten you. I never would. I just thought for a change I shouldn’t call you too early. You see, little by little I’m improving. There may be some hope for me yet.”

Tsvi promised to call back in five minutes, as soon as he had finished shaving.

After half an hour Fima swallowed his pride and called Tsvi again:

“Well? So who’s forgotten whom? Can you spare me a couple of minutes?” And without waiting for an answer he said that he needed some advice about an article he’d started writing in the night, and now this morning he wasn’t certain he still agreed with himself. The question was this. Two days ago in Ha’arets there was a report of a speech by Günter Grass to a student audience in Berlin. It was a courageous, decent speech. Grass had denounced the Nazi period and gone on to denounce all trendy parallels between the atrocities of our own day and Rider’s crimes, including the often-heard comparison with Israel and South Africa. So far so good.