“Broken hearts mended here,” Nina said, meaning to sound witty but sounding close to tears instead. “Saint Fima, patron saint of grass widows. If it goes on like this, you’ll soon be seeing visitors by appointment only.”

She went into the kitchen and took out of her shopping basket a bag full of sprays and cleaning materials, which she placed for the time being on the edge of the counter. Fima had the impression that her lips, closed on a cigarette, were trembling. She unpacked various provisions she had brought him, opened the door of the refrigerator, and recoiled in horror.

“What a filthy mess,” she exclaimed.

Fima explained sheepishly that he had actually done a radical cleaning but had not had time to do the fridge.

And when was Uri coming back?

From the bottom of the shopping basket Nina extracted a small plastic bag.

“Late Friday night. I.e., tomorrow. I suppose you can both hardly wait. Well, you can have your honeymoon on Saturday night. Here, I’ve brought you the book about Leibowitz. You ran away and left it on the rug. What’s going to become of you, Fima? Just look at yourself.”

And indeed Fima had omitted to tuck his shirttail in after Annette, and the bottom of his yellowing flannel undershirt was showing below the chunky sweater.

Nina emptied the fridge, ruthlessly throwing out ancient vegetables tuna, moldy remains of fossilized cheese, an open sardine can. She attacked the shelves and dividers with a cloth soaked in detergent. Fima meanwhile buttered several thick slices of the fragrant black Georgian bread she had brought with her, spread them generously with jam, and started munching voraciously. All the while he delivered a brief lecture on the lessons to be learned in Israel from the collapse of the left in England, Scandinavia, and in fact all over northern Europe. Suddenly, in the middle of a sentence, he said in a different voice: