A moment later he was disgusted by these reflections, because on second thought they struck him as the embodiment of nineteenth-century Russian kitsch. The very term “abortion inferno” was an injustice: after all, there were times when life was actually created here. Fima recalled a patient by the name of Sarah Matalon who had been advised by leading specialists to give up and adopt a child, and only Gad Eitan persevered single-mindedly for four years, until he finally opened her womb. The whole staff of the clinic was invited to the circumcision of her son. The father suddenly announced that the child would be called Gad, and Fima noticed Dr. Eitan biting hard on his leather watch strap; indeed for a moment his own eyes filled too. They had to make do with Dr. Wahrhaftig, who held the baby enthusiastically.

Fima leaped forward to help Tamar, who was helping a dazed girl of about seventeen, pale as a sheet and thin as a matchstick, walk falteringly toward the recovery room. As though to atone for the sins of the whole male sex, Fima bustled here and there, hurrying to fetch a soft blanket, a cold glass of mineral water with a slice of lemon in it, paper tissues, aspirins. Later he called a taxi for her.

At four-thirty there was a coffee break. Dr. Wahrhaftig came and leaned on the reception desk, wafting a smell of medicine and disinfectant into Fima’s face. His massive chest, blown up like that of a tsarist governor-general, and his broad round hips did give his heavy body the look of a basso profundo. His cheeks were crisscrossed by a network of unhealthy bluish, red, and pink blood vessels that were so close to the surface, you could almost take his pulse by their throbbing.

Lithe and silent, with velvety movements like a cat on hot tin, Dr. Eitan arrived. He was chewing gum slowly, impassively, with his mouth closed. His lips were thin and pursed. Wahrhaftig said:

“That was a very odd Schnitz. Just as well you stitched her up nice and tight.”

Eitan said:

“We pulled her through. It didn’t look too good.”

Wahrhaftig said:

“About the transfusion: you were absolutely right.”

Eitan said:

“Big deal. It was obvious from the start.”

And Wahrhaftig said:

“God has given you clever fingers, Gad.”

Fima interrupted gently:

“Drink your coffee. It’s getting cold.”

“Herr Exzellenz von Nisan!” roared Wahrhaftig. “And where has His Highness been hiding all these days? Has he been writing a new Faust for us? Or a Kohlhaas? We had almost forgotten what your face looks like!” He went on to recount a “well-known joke” about three layabouts. But he could not restrain himself from bursting into guffaws before he had even reached the third layabout.

Gad Eitan, lost in thought, suddenly remarked: