“Look, Nina. About the night before last. No, it was the night before that. I burst in looking like a half-drowned dog, I talked nonsense, I jumped on top of you, I upset you, and then I ran away without explaining. Now I’m ashamed. I can’t imagine what you must think of me. I just wouldn’t like you to think that I don’t find you attractive or something. It’s not that, Nina. On the contrary. I do, more than ever. I’d simply had a bad day. This just isn’t my week. I feel that I’m not really living. Just existing. Creeping from day to day. Without sense and without desire. There’s a verse in the Psalms: My soul droops with sorrow. That about sums it up: drooping. Sometimes I have no idea what I’m doing hanging around here like last year’s snow. Coming and going. Writing and crossing out. Filling in forms at the office. Putting my clothes on and taking them off again. Making phone calls. Bothering everybody and driving you all crazy. Needling my father on purpose. How come there are still people who can stand me? How come you haven’t sent me to Hell yet? Will you teach me how to make amends?”

Nina said:

“Be quiet, Fima. Just stop talking.”

Meanwhile she arranged the new provisions on the shelves of the now gleaming refrigerator. Her frail shoulders were trembling. From behind she looked to Fima like a small animal trapped in a cage, and he felt tenderness for her. Still with her back toward him, she continued: