The phrase “domestic servants,” or maybe it was “the meanest Ukrainian anti-Semite,” reminded the old man of a story that was actually set in a small town in the Ukraine. As usual the narration dragged behind it a long train of explanations and morals.

Finally Fima gave up in despair and screamed that he didn’t need any decorators anyway and that Baruch should stop poking his nose into his life all the time, subsidizing, plastering, matchmaking. “You may have forgotten, Dad, but I happen to be fifty-four years old.”

When he had finished, the old man replied placidly:

“Very nice, my dear. Very nice. It seems I was wrong. I sinned, I erred, I transgressed. In that case I shall still try to find you a nice Jewish painter. Without any taint of colonial exploitation. Assuming that such a paragon still exists in our state.”

“That’s just the point,” Fima crowed triumphantly. “In the whole of this miserable country of ours you can’t find a single Jewish builder or male nurse or gardener. That’s what your Territories have done to the Zionist dream! The Arabs are building the Land for us while we sit back gorging ourselves on the Leviathan and the wild ox. And then we go out and murder them, and their children too, just because they have the gall not to be happy and grateful for the privilege of unblocking drains for the chosen people till the Messiah comes.”

“The Messiah,” Baruch reflected sadly. “Perhaps he is already among us. Some say he is. And maybe it’s just because of fine fellows like you that he hasn’t made himself known yet. There’s a story about Reb Uri of Strelisk, the Holy Seraph, the grandfather of Uri Tsvi Greenberg the poet, who was once wandering lost in the forest . . .”

“Let him wander!” Fima cut in. “Let him stay lost forever! And the grandson too. And the Messiah as well, for that matter, to say nothing of his ass.”

The old man coughed and cleared his throat, like an old teacher about to hold forth, but instead of lecturing Fima he asked sadly: “So that’s your humanism? That’s the voice of the peace camp? The lover of mankind hopes that his fellow man will be lost in the forest? The defender of Islam prays that saintly Jews will perish?”

Fima was momentarily abashed. He regretted wishing misfortune on the rabbi lost in the forest. But he quickly rallied and counterattacked with a surprise flanking movement:

“Listen to this, Baruch. Listen carefully. Apropos of Islam. I want to read you word for word what it says here in the encyclopedia about India.”